


In All the Old Familiar Places

by stone_in_focus



Category: L.A. Noire, Supernatural
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesiac Dean, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel is Not Oblivious, Crossover, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean in Denial, Dean swears a lot, Dean-Centric, Detective Noir, Drug Dealing, Episode: s07e12 Time After Time, Eventual Smut, F/M, F/M is minimal, First Time Bottom Dean, Gay Panic, Gnosticism, Human Castiel, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Knights Templar, M/M, Mark of Cain, Men of Letters, Needy Dean, Novel, Occult, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Praise Kink, Romance, Sam Knows, Season/Series 09, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Switching, Team Free Will, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Torture, Women of Letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 91,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Dean's final showdown with Metatron, Cas goes missing—though it's not so much a matter of "where" but "when." Desperate to find Cas, Dean convinces a wary Sam to travel back to 1947 on a rescue mission, only to discover Bartholomew’s scheme to infiltrate the LAPD and the dark secrets of a forgotten society. To make matters worse, Dean has no recollection of recent events and struggles with lingering effects of the Mark. As he attempts to regain his memory, he fears the nightmares lurking at the back of his mind are ticking bombs, and Cas may be his only hope of keeping himself from losing his grip on reality completely.</p><p>NOTE: Major character death is temporary and open to interpretation. Also, <i>L.A. Noire</i> is serving as more of a backdrop to the story. A few characters from <i>L.A. Noire</i> will make appearances, but they won't be the main focus. However, there may be spoilers for <i>L.A. Noire,</i> although I don't anticipate a need to spoil the game's ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not in Kansas Anymore, Toto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being told in second person, this is not a "reader" fic. The "you" in this case is Dean, similar to how I write most of my other second person fics. For some reason I find it easier to see things from Dean's POV this way. :) I really adore second person tbh, although I know it's not everyone's cup of tea.

Maybe, just _maybe,_ it's time to ease up on the hooch.

Your head's throbbing like a bitch when you come to, groaning as you roll over onto your side and try to make sense of wherever your sorry ass has landed. You spot a vent a ways up, and what looks like some pretty fancy schmancy marble paneling along the lower half of the wall. So you're on the floor. Okay, that means gravity's working, anyway, and yeah, that's actually kind of a relief, knowing one plus one still equals two. Least, until it feels like ground zero in your gut, one bad mother of what probably used to be a bean burrito creepin' up your throat, and—

Yep, gravity's still working, all right.

You wipe your mouth on your sleeve, and it's more of a struggle than you'd like to admit to get on your knees and stand up, enough that you feel like goddamn Rocky when you're finally back on your feet.

What the hell happened last night?

Turns out you're in a hallway, and not on the first floor if the stairwell you're making out at the far end is any indication. There's a row of doors on either side of you, all with the same straight-angled trim like that one movie theater with the stale candy, no A/C, and a case of hepatitis on every toilet seat (but hey, it would've been a crime to pass up a midnight showing of _Casablanca_ for two bucks). Thank God this place's a lot nicer. Shinier. Actually sorta reminds you of certain parts of the bunker, too, now that you think about it. What had Sam called it? Art Deco? Whatever, not that you're into the whole _Better Homes and Gardens_ crap.

A little on the gaudy side, though.

You get to wondering if you've stumbled into some kinda retro penthouse—or hotel, maybe. 'Cept there's no numbers on the doors. Huh. Buckingham Palace? Sure seems like the place where tea time would be an actual thing, pinky fingers sticking out and everything. Only finger you've ever stuck out on purpose ain't any sort of dainty.

But guessing isn't gonna get you nowhere, so you start heading towards the stairs, careful to avoid slipping on your last meal as you call out Sam's name. No response, so you try Cas. Still nothing.

Right. Cellphone, dumbass.

Unfortunately, digging through your pockets gets you nothing but a gum wrapper and some loose change. Wallet's missing, too. Awesome. So you're broke, without a phone and with a hangover from hell while your body's bent on going Mt. Vesuvius on you. And you have absolutely no friggin' idea where you are or how you even managed to get into the Ritz in the first place.

Back in your more formative years, it'd be what you'd fondly refer to as a typical Sunday morning.

Normally, this'd be the part where you spout off some lame excuse about how it's not your proudest moment—and you'll be honest: your life's full of not proud moments—but crazy thing is…you don't remember a damn thing. Not like, get black-out drunk and don't remember a damn thing; like literally _do not remember anything_ from the past…fuck, has it been a week? Longer?

You stop dead in your tracks, every hair on the back of your neck standing at attention when you realize the last time something like that's happened: when Meg yanked Sam off the big and tall rack and added him to her personal wardrobe.

You try to shake it off your shoulders, tell yourself that you don't _feel_ demon-y. But that ain't stoppin' those chills from running sprints up your spine; your stomach from doing hurdles at ninety miles an hour.

Not to mention this joint's too quiet for your liking, and that's always _Bad News Bears._

You need to get the hell out of here and find some answers.

"Cas? Sammy?" you call out again, a little more desperate this time, making a sharp right after taking the stairs. It's about what you'd expect: just another level of rooms and a whole lotta nada.

Wait, no, _not_ nada.

At the end of the hallway, there's someone with his back to you, but you'd be able to spot that trench coat if you were swimming in Trench Coat Sea.

(Not that you wanna see another soggy trench coat, like, ever.)

"Cas?"

He doesn't turn around. Maybe he doesn't hear you; maybe the dude's just meditating or something, but it's almost like he's caught in some kinda trance, fixated on whatever's on the other side of the window. Not sure what's so damn interesting, though, when all you can see is a white light streaming through the glass, making him glow like he's a—well, okay, he is a freaking angel, but, you know, more angel-y than usual. 'Cause as you walk up to him, it's almost downright grade A celestial, realizing the closer you get, the brighter the light gets. So much that you're shielding your eyes before you can even reach out to him, and in an instant, the light blows all to hell, causing the whole building to quake as it knocks you clear back on your ass.

Thanks for the fucking warning, buddy.

You scramble back up, doing a quick inventory of your body parts—still got both eyes; that's a definite plus.

Then you notice you're minus one angel.

"Shit…Cas? Cas!" you bark out, spinning left and right and charging down one corridor after another. And fuck, _fuck,_ he's gone again, already zapped off to God knows where. Getting real tired of angels acting like a limp dick that keeps slippin' out.

But suddenly, that's the least of your problems.

You blink once, twice. Three times, actually, thinkin' maybe you got a bit of double vision from whatever the hell that heavenly explosion was. 'Cause it isn't just the one or two hallways anymore.

It's an entire fucking maze of doors.

Christ, why can't anything ever be easy?

You pace back and forth, scrubbing a hand down your face. Well, shit. Do you keep running in circles, or do you start bashing down every door till you find that flighty-ass bird?

No, no, there's gotta be somethin' you're missing. Whoever—or whatever—brought you here must've done it for a reason. There's gotta be some detail that—wait. The doors. They're all blue. This like…you don't know, _The Matrix?_ Find the red one and, what, jackpot?

Yeah, okay, Neo. Gonna take down the suits and rebel against the machine, too? Jesus, how about a theory with less Skynet, please? You huff out a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Where's Sam when you need 'im? That Stanford noggin of his is better at figuring out this kinda stuff.

All right, enough of this crap. The bastards took the Colt when they dumped you off, but they forgot to check your boot. Still got a pretty little switchblade at your disposal, and it always made more sense to you to get straight to the action, anyway, 'specially if riddles is their idea of foreplay.

You step over to the nearest room, actually disappointed when you go to turn the knob and it's unlocked (you were totally ready to go all Chuck Norris on it). Leaning your weight into the door, you press an ear up against the wood, see if you can pick up anything before you go in—and wait, what the fuck? Is that…is that _neighing?_ Gotta be the TV, right?

Nope.

It's an actual fucking horse.

You jerk the door shut, take a breather, and open the door again.

Yeah, still a horse.

Guess your crackpot _Matrix_ theory don't seem so crazy after all. Because it's not just a horse; it's a cowboy; it's a saloon; it's an entire fucking town that looks like it came straight out of a western flick, and unless movies have a new thing called Taste-O-Vision, you're pretty sure that's literal dust you're licking off your lips. And the smells…oh, God, don't get you started on those.

Either you've officially cracked, or someone's slipped a real doozy in your drink. You're remotely comfortable with all zero of those options.

You go with door number two instead.

There isn't all the whoopin' and hollerin' anymore, but there's still a bustle about the place you stumble upon next. Beat cops pushing paper; detectives cramming donuts and washing them down with the morning sludge; the words "forensics" and "APB" every five seconds—it's a friggin' police station. And door number three? Football stadium. High school, from the looks of how shitty the players are and, unfortunately, how way too old for those cheerleaders you are.

What the hell is this place?

You try one more door a couple halls down, which opens up into a fifties diner, complete with greased-up hair and leather jackets, milkshake dates, and a jukebox that's rockin' the King. Yeah, you can dig Elvis. And aw, man, those burgers the fry cook's serving up are works of art; too bad your empty pockets and upset stomach can't appreciate one of those babies right now.

Oh, and…guess you should probably find your family.

So, what, each one of these doors opens up to another dimension? Is this hotel, or whatever it is, home to like the entire space-time continuum? Is that even possible?

You're tempted to think a certain archangel has something to do with this—everything about this reeks Trickster—but last you knew, he was wearin' the charcoal wings. You're not so sure he's dead, neither, but why show up now after all these years? That just don't make a lick of sense.

Ugh, fuck. It takes all the energy you have to stop yourself from…you don't know, punch a fucking wall or something. Man, how are you ever gonna track down Cas and your brother?

You almost piss yourself when a loud screeching noise comes outta nowhere, like some really nasty feedback, and holy shit, you're gonna die. Doesn't help that your heart's already pounding inside your head, but thank God it goes silent again just as quick. Next thing you hear is something like…a record scratching? It's faint, but yeah, you're pretty sure that's a record, playing some old timey tune that's a real crooner. It's a song you don't recognize, but it sounds… _feels_ familiar.

_"One more kiss, dear. One more sigh. Only this, dear, is goodbye."_

Why is it familiar?

You ain't got any better ideas, so you follow it. It takes you down to the ground floor and inward to—surprise—another blue door, and maybe it's just all your nerves bundled up, but somethin' smells different about this one. Your knuckles tighten around the hilt of your knife as you twist the knob and ease into the room, turning the lock and resting it against the jamb so the door doesn't shut on itself. You know, safety precautions. You got no idea what this funhouse is capable of, and you'll breathe easier knowing you've left yourself an escape route.

It's the closest thing you've seen to a living space since you got here. A fire's going in the large marble pit, the mantle more of that same Art Deco shit you saw out in the halls. You figure this room's gotta be some sort of study, seeing as all the shelving's packed with nothing but books. There's a desk with some decorative doohickeys and a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, but nothing really noteworthy compared to the other rooms. Maybe this one isn't just another portal?

That is, until you notice the panoramic view of all the glitz and glamour of the city nightlife below. And is that the actual Hollywood(land?) sign in the background? You flunked physics, but remembering you're supposed to be on the ground floor probably scratches the whole not another portal thought.

Taking a few more steps in, you spot the half-drunk bottle of a vintage scotch next to the leather armchair. You nearly whistle; that stuff don't come cheap.

Then you see the knocked-over container of pills, strewn around a crystal tumbler, and suddenly, you've got a bad feeling you're not gonna like what you find when you come 'round to the other side of that chair.

Except the chair's empty.

At least it makes you sweat less knowing you don't got a dead guy on your hands, but that still don't even begin to explain what you're doing here. You s'posed to be looking for something, or—

There it is, over in the back. The record player.

And Cas is the one fiddlin' with the needle.

"It's broken," he says when you approach him.

What, no _Hello, Dean?_

You're not gonna admit it, but you might be a little miffed that the dude doesn't even bother glancing up at you after being put through this fucking wild goose chase. "Th'hell you mean? I heard it playing music just fine. Nearly blew out my eardrums, by the way."

You watch him press his lips together, and seems like forever before his eyes strain to meet your own. "How did you find me?"

"Luck? That 'profound bond' shit? How should I know?" You shrug, pocketing your switchblade. "Isn't it enough that I finally found you? I mean, there's gotta be like, a bazillion rooms in this place."

Cas nods. "The possibilities…" he heaves a sigh, "…are endless."

Is it just you, or does he sound tired?

You're about to ask him The Burning Question that's been nagging at you ever since you got plunked in this trans-dimensional nightmare, but something on his face don't seem right. He's not lookin' his normal squinty, constipated self. "You okay, Cas?" Then you remember the pill container. "Those aren't yours, are they?"

"You shouldn't be here."

You roll your eyes, but the subject change doesn't go unnoticed. "Gee, ya think, Captain Obvious?"

"I shouldn't be here, either, but it appears that my efforts were, once again, futile."

'Kay, sure. That's equally helpful. "Mind _not_ acting like a riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a taco?" And yeah, this is Cas you're talking to, but seriously, your brain's about to explode, and not just 'cause that beast of a hangover's still rearing its ugly head. "What the fuck's going on? And what the hell was that back there, going all nuclear like that?"

He doesn't answer right away, wringing his hands as his fingers do some twiddling. You know that can't be a good sign, and you're already feeling a groan followed by a _Shit, what is it this time?_

But then Cas just says, "Dean."

You don't know why, but the sound of your name in his throat sits like a stone in your gut, anchoring your feet to the floor as he reaches up and puts a hand to your cheek. Funny thing is, you don't move away. Maybe you can't; maybe you don't want to. Maybe you figure he's just doin' one of his usual angel tricks. Guy's always been a little touchy-feely for heaven's most wanted.

'Cept…you don't ever remember him being like this, running his fingers along the rough patches that badly needed a shave two days ago, rubbing the one spot behind your ear that he shouldn't even know about—and Jesus, you definitely don't remember him thumbing your bottom lip like that. It should be all red flags and alarm bells going off in your head right now, and every instinct's screaming at you that something ain't right about this picture, but the way he's looking at you stirs something up in your chest real good, and…fuck, you're leaning into it now. Like it…fuck, it ain't right, but it's _right._ Like that song you just can't put a penny on, but you know it all the same. Like it's right where you belong.

Maybe where you've always belonged.

"It's time to wake up."

"Wake up?" Your eyebrows crinkle together. "From what, Cas?"

Reading him's like a cryptic message you don't got the decoder ring for. Only thing you do catch is this, this strange sorta sadness in his eyes before he switches on the high beams. Next thing you know, your insides are heating up like you're about to start doing the pee dance, and…oh, shit. The angel's charging up again.

You don't get the chance to protest before the light swallows you whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who aren't familiar with the cast of _L.A. Noire_ or _Supernatural's_ minor characters, Bartholomew from _Supernatural_ and Roy Earle from _L.A. Noire_ are both played by Adam Harrington. Henry Winchester from _Supernatural_ and Jack Kelso from _L.A. Noire_ are both played by Gil McKinney. I'm surprised I haven't stumbled a crossover with these two fandoms sooner, to be perfectly honest!
> 
> Also, if you're curious, the song that Dean hears is ["One More Kiss, Dear" by Vangelis/Don Percival.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XzcHJAONSSo)


	2. Coincidences Don't Just Happen Coincidentally

The white wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so…y'know. _White._

Your first thought's got you wondering if Cas' beamed you up to heaven. It wouldn't be the weirdest place he's teleported you to—in fact, you've already been there, done that.

Your kind of heaven usually involves lights out, though.

You're not sure how long it takes for your eyes to adjust. Coulda been a minute; coulda been twenty. Your mind's still got a fog hanging over it, everything in front of you all shapeless blobs. One of 'em's a ginormous blob—a little on the hairy side, actually—until you realize that ginormous, hairy blob's your brother.

Well, you've woken up to worse.

He's slumped over in a chair next to you, snoring loud enough to attract the entire female Canadian geese population while a half-finished crossword puzzle slowly slips off his lap. The lumpy pillow behind your head and the scratchy-as-hell wool blanket over you suggest that you've probably been doing some snoozing yourself.

Huh. So it's all just a dream, then. Thank God. For a second there, you thought you might actually have to cut back on the booze.

That is, till the haze wears off and lets the pain flood in, and you're not breathing so easy anymore when you realize you're strung up to an IV—and yeah, that's a fucking tube down your nose, too. You hear your ticker speeding up on the machine as you crane your neck for a good glimpse of the room, and now you're legit not sure if you'd rather be back in multiverse.

How the fuck did you end up in a hospital?

"Sam—" You choke on the word, needing some water real bad. Throat's burning like hell. "Sammy?"

He sniffs awake, eyes growing big as he sits up and leans forward. "Dean?"

"You okay, Sammy?"

"Me?" He snorts, something that sounds like it's meant to be a chuckle but doesn't come out quite right. "I'm—yeah, I'm all right. Better now." He lifts a hand towards you but hesitates, settling for his knee instead. "How're you feeling?"

"Guessing I don't wanna be lookin' in a mirror anytime soon." You crack a small smile, but it disappears when Sam doesn't even take the bait. "Wow. Left it wide open, man. Must be bad," you quip, like you always do when the silence starts getting to you.

When there's an answer you need but a question you don't wanna ask.

"Where's Cas?"

"Dean…" Sam glances down at his shoes, but you don't have to see him to know the look on that kid's face. "What do you remember?"

The inside of your arm starts to ache something fierce, and you got no friggin' clue why.

You chalk it up to the damn catheter.

*****

The next day or two's still a bit fuzzy. You sleep mostly, though you never find yourself back in any trippy dreams, which you'll consider a blessing for now. When you are conscious, you vaguely remember the doc asking you a bunch of questions 'bout how you're doing, like he's trying to get all up in your head. Probably told him to screw off once or twice; you really don't have fucking time for this. You need to get outta here and figure shit out, but your body's telling you otherwise when you nearly collapse just getting out of bed. Jesus, it's like the life force's been sucked out of you; what the hell?

Sam doesn't seem to know jack about Cas' whereabouts. From what you can gather, you and Metatron had your final showdown, and if it hadn't been for Sam, you wouldn't have made it out of there alive. Least it explains why you feel like you've been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, but Cas…all you can figure is somehow you got separated, and he hasn't resurfaced since. Fuck, if he's lying hurt somewhere, or…or worse, and it's because of you, because you started this whole damn mess in the first place…

Dammit. Why can't you just remember? You don't even remember duking it out with that assclown. Last thing you can think of is fishing the First Blade out of some dude's corpse—which is probably like, _the_ grossest thing ever—but that was ages ago. Maybe. You don't really know fuck all anymore.

You try to concentrate, dig deep into that head of yours for even just a flash of what might've happened, but you don't get far before it's like someone's shoving needles through your brain. Sam has to tell you later that the nurse swung by with more pain meds after you started wigging out. Guess you passed out again. Too bad; hear she's real cute.

"Yeah, that wasn't really funny the first six times," Sam says. "Also, that last nurse was a dude."

"We talkin' Dr. Sexy, or, like…Igor?"

He shoots you a look, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you're probably realizing that's definitely not on your list of appropriate responses, but thanks to the drugs, you're sittin' comfortable and minus two shits about whatever's coming out of your mouth. If he questions it, you'll just explain you were parked on the dark side of the moon. And anyway, what? Can't a guy be curious? 'Cause, yeah. Pure curiosity is, uh…is what it is.

"I don't know; I don't really pay attention to that kind of thing, Dean."

"You know you get all weepy-eyed over those soap operas. Telenovelas." You attempt to pull some seventh grade Spanish out of your ass, though mainly you just remember your hot Latina teacher. "Ricardo the Conquistador."

Sam's raising an eyebrow now. "I remember _you_ getting all 'weepy-eyed' over Ricardo." Jerk's probably hiding a laugh under his breath, too.

You…well, you're finding the ceiling exceptionally interesting at the moment. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, yeah, back when you were laid up with that bum leg?"

"You're a…bum leg."

Nice.

It gets a smile out of him, though, one of those toothy grins you haven't seen since…you'll just say it's been a while. And you wanna tell yourself it's things like this that make it all worth it again, where you're joking and screwing around and, fuck, not giving a crap for once and just… _happy,_ man. Fuck heaven and hell and everything in between; you just wanna be happy.

Do you even know how to be happy?

There's a dull ache in your throat when you try to swallow. "Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for sticking with my dumb ass all these years. And I mean…I mean _dumb._ "

You're fightin' for words, struggling to say more, but he stops you. "It's okay, Dean." He reaches over and gives you a light squeeze to the shoulder. "I know."

You blink when your eyes start to water. You blame it on the sun hitting you at the wrong angle. "Wish Cas was here, too."

Sam gets real quiet. "I know."

*****

Finally, the doc gives you the rubber stamp and releases you back into the wild. Sweet, sweet freedom. That freedom would sure taste a lot sweeter, though, with a fresh slice of apple pie. As Sam wheels you out, you tell him first diner you see, you're gonna make a pit stop. Mmm, Baby and baked goods; now that's what you're talking about.

However, he's not coughing up the keys when you ask for them. "Yeah…think it's probably better if I drive," he says—he actually, honest to God says.

"'Scuse me?"

"Don't you think you should be taking it easy? You're not exactly a hundred percent yet, and I'd just…I'd feel better if I was at the wheel; that's all."

"You'd feel better if _you_ were at the wheel? In _my_ car?"

"Look, you're still having these weird migraines or whatever, and after what happened—"

"I'm fine, Sam. I'm not a friggin' geezer that needs to poop in a bag. I only agreed to get in this damn wheelchair in the first place because that nurse wouldn't let me leave if I didn't. And, uh…" You twist around, winking up at him. "You know how I respect authority."

Great, now he's getting all mopey and huffing at you. You think you even see him stomp his foot. "Dean, you're not driving."

And now you're getting angry. "Hell, I'm not!"

"All my life, all you've done is take care of me—"

"You sayin' that's a bad thing?"

"No, Dean, that's not…" He swipes a hand through his hair, biting back his lip. "I'm saying let me take care of you, okay? And maybe…maybe you should take more frickin' care of yourself for once—for _once_ —in your life. Please."

You can't manage a response to that. Or maybe you don't want to.

"Listen…I get it," he says. Oh, does he? "I get that you're in a lot of pain, and I know you think you don't deserve it—"

"I don't need help." You shove him away soon as you reach the car, but you get the spins standing up. It's only Sam's reflexes that stop you from eating concrete.

"Yeah. Yeah, you do."

*****

The ride back to the bat cave's like crickets, but you still get your pie from some little roadside dive, at least. Three slices, to be exact, along with a large scoop of vanilla bean ice cream. Sam can suck it if he just wants to keep moving so he can sleep in a real bed again; you ain't letting anything come between you and your one true love. And you only need one bite to know that you're gonna have to put down a few extra for the tip—a crust that melts in your mouth; the kind of warm filling that makes you feel gooey all the way down to your toes—this place is like where pies go when they die, man.

But the honeymoon don't last forever, and before you know it, Sam's shaking you awake and telling you you're home. He fusses over you like a goddamn mother hen, practically force-feeding you some mac and cheese when you make the mistake of saying you're not hungry. And no, Sam, you don't need to drink any more fucking water, and yes, Sam, you're pretty sure you'll be able to make it to your room without ending up a Life Alert commercial. Jesus. You've never been this annoying, have you?

Sam gives you some kinda glare like you _really_ don't want him to answer that.

You finally get some breathing room when it's time to hit the sack, and your body's instant Jell-O the second you flop down onto the bed. Should feel good, slipping back into nothin' but a t-shirt and boxer briefs and sliding around in those cool, crisp sheets again. Instead, it just feels…empty. All that space next to you, around you, in you—it's all too big. It's always been too fucking big, and you're just waiting for the moment the ground opens up beneath you and swallows you whole.

Except it never comes.

Goddammit, why doesn't it come?

You put on your headphones to drown it all out, turn off the brainwaves so you can't hear yourself getting worked up over the fact that it's 2:41 a.m. and you still haven't heard a single chirp from that bird. C'mon, Cas, not even a text? You know he knows how use a damn phone. He's even done the whole Snapchat thing, for chrissakes—whatever the hell that is—mostly sending you pictures of cats, weird food, and you swear to God the randomest things like…a pile of leaves? Yeah, you don't even know, but apparently, it made him "think of you." And even though you thought it was really stupid at the time and you _really_ wanted to punch that stupid grin off of Sam's face, part of you's thinkin' that, okay, maybe it did make you smile a little bit. Maybe there were even a couple'a times where your stomach got all funny about it in a good way whenever you got the alerts. And if you're being completely honest…maybe part of you's kinda wishing you'd at least responded with a "Ditto."

'Cause yeah, Cas. Ditto.

You send up a prayer, and his name's like gravel in your throat. "Cas, I don't know where the hell you are right now, but if you're listening…you gotta let me know you're okay, man. I'm, uh…I'm real worried 'bout you, and, uh…Sam's…he's worried, too. Just…give us a sign. Anything." Tongue's feelin' thick in the back of your mouth as you try to swallow. "You're really…you're really freaking me out right now, and I just…I dunno. Just come home, man. Please."

You know he's been grounded since the fall, but that doesn't stop you from peeping one eye open, waiting for that familiar flap of wings and polite-as-fuck _Hello, Dean._

God, you'd really love a hello.

*****

You force yourself to get an early start the next day, early enough so Sam notices you puttering around in the kitchen after he's finished his morning strut around the lake. That unfortunately translates to rolling out of bed at the ass crack of dawn, but you're a grown man that can cook up his own food, thank you very much, and last thing you need is Sam babying you again like he's one step away from making airplane noises and shoving the damn fork in your mouth himself.

While the bacon and sausage links are sizzling in the pan, you wash your hands of the meat germs, catching your reflection in the toaster. It ain't pretty, all dark circles and hollow spaces. There's a joke forming on your tongue about how you need to do something about that thing you call a face, but instead, the back of your jaw tenses, and it's too late to jerk away before your arms are shaking, knuckles white as you steady yourself against the sink.

You swear your eyes flashed black.

You end up burning the bacon, and shut up, Sam; maybe you wanted your eggs a little runny today. Far as he's gonna know, everything's peachy keen even as you choke down an overcooked sausage. Charcoal's supposed to be good for the digestive system or something, ain't it?

After breakfast, you hole up in your room and get down to business. Cas hasn't returned any of your calls since the last five seconds you checked your phone, but Sam's still adamant about the no driving rule till your body gets all the kinks worked out, so guess you're working remotely. It's like you're some snot-nosed kid, being on this bullshit house arrest, though you do your best to try to channel some of that energy into…ugh, it pains you to even say it… _research._

You look into all the news reports for anything out of the ordinary, call in to all the nearby hospitals to see if they've recently taken in anyone fitting Cas' description. You get a hold of Garth, too, have him put out a message across the network for the other hunters to keep their ears to the ground, but so far, you're rolling snake eyes. And isn't there at least _one_ angel you can talk to that didn't drink the damn Kool-Aid? Christ.

The wall's looking like a real good place to bang your head right now.

Well, staring at your phone and willing it to ring ain't exactly helping, so you head for the kitchen and poke around the icebox for a cold one. There's the usual condiments, some pepperoni pizza that's gettin' a little fuzzy, and a few eggs left over, but nothing remotely resembling alcohol. "We outta beer?" you ask when Sam comes in. "Thought there was half a case in here last night."

He freezes like a moose caught in headlights, then mumbles something under his breath, which you hope sounds like, "Guess I'll…um…make a trip into town." And just walks away.

'Kay. Weirdo.

As the hours wear on, you get so desperate that you're cashing in on every last favor you've ever had (might've made some less-than-legitimate deals, too), but all you got is bupkis. No leads, not even a blip—just a big steaming pile of nothin'. Like he's completely disappeared off the radar. You're about ready to burn rubber and beeline it for his last known location, and if Sam gets in a tizzy about it, he can blow it out his ass. Someone's gotta get this show on the road. But before you slam your laptop shut and reach for your duffle, you notice something sticking out behind the photo of you and Mom. It's a folded-up piece of paper with the words "De Longpre" and "Wilcox" in an almost girly kinda handwriting you don't recognize, and the stationery's all yellowed, from someplace called the El Mar Hotel. That's not ringing any bells, neither.

Now, you're not gonna go so far as to call yourself some sorta neat freak (Baby's trunk alone could snuff any rumors of that), but even for you, certain things have a certain place, and that photo's one of 'em. Propped up next to the lamp, right in the middle of the nightstand so you remember to say good night before scooching under the covers. Yeah, yeah, real mushy stuff, you know, but she's your mom, and the day you stop thinking about her is the day you stop being her son. Any guy that says he's not a momma's boy is lying, far as you're concerned.

Anyway, point is, you've got your stuff arranged exactly how you want it. So that note? That's never been there. Ever. It's almost like…someone else put it there.

All right, you'll bite.

You run a basic search, and turns out "De Longpre" and "Wilcox" aren't names of people, but intersecting streets somewhere in…L.A.? Okay, weird. Doesn't bring to mind any significant hunts; fact, you haven't been out to Cali in a while. So you try the interactive map, which shows a weapons and bail bonds place next to some crappy apartment complex—classy—and there's what looks like a small parking lot for "detective and authorized vehicles only" behind an unmarked building. You see the CNN tower off in the distance, but nowhere near the intersection scribbled on the note.

Wait a second. There's a hotel name on the stationery, right? El Mar Hotel; that's it. Internet tells you it was torn down in the late 1940s. Okay, _double_ weird. You run the search again for "De Longpre and Wilcox" but with "1940" tacked on this time. Huh. Guess that's where the Hollywood Police Station used to be located? Maybe still is, but a lot's changed in seventy years.

You stick with the 1940s theme, pairing it with "LAPD." Nothing too interesting pops up, so you start scrolling through the image results. Pages and pages of useless photos later, you're just about to call it quits when a familiar face catches your eye.

Son of a _bitch._

*****

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee when you break the news. "Bartholomew?"

"Yeah, only according to this," you whip out a copy of the photo fresh from the presses, pointing at the caption, "he's going by the alias of Roy Earle."

He takes the paper from you, and you don't know if he's studying you or the picture more. "You sure it's him? I mean, I thought Cas killed him."

"Angels know how to time travel. Maybe one of Boyle's mooks tipped him off about his just desserts, and he hauled ass back to 1940; I dunno."

"Or you think…" He gives you one of those wimpy shrugs as he hands it back. "Maybe it's just his vessel's grandfather?"

"Really, Sam? That's what you're going with?" Gee, years of being in the business, and you'd think he'd learn something. "The dude looks exactly like him!"

"I'm just saying maybe we should be sure, you know? I mean, you remember that these are actual humans the angels are possessing, right? They have parents."

You're not in the mood for the whole birds and the bees talk, so you get down to it. "If it wasn't important, then why did someone leave a note?"

"A note?" His eyes get all narrow as his face scrunches up at you. "What note?"

You pat yourself down and come up empty-handed. Guess you left it back in your room. "Well, I don't have it on me right now, but it was on this…this real old stationery from some El Mar Hotel. Like 1940s-old." Your brother just stares at you, and you realize, okay, yeah, the entire bunker's full of old shit. But then you get to explaining where you found it and how the addresses led you to digging up the LAPD roster, and you know he's finally catching up with you when he tilts his head and does that little nose flare of his. "Can't be just a coincidence, Sam. And I'm willing to bet the whole kitty the bastard knows where Cas is, too."

You can't for the life of you figure out why, but something in his expression crumples. "Dean…" he says slowly, "…I don't think…"

Ugh, Jesus, why are you even…since when is Sam Mr. Skeptic all of a sudden? You got a lead, you take it, and this is as good as it's gotten. What, you supposed to let yourself go stir-crazy waiting for something to drop in your lap?

You turn around and palm a hand over your mouth, trying to pull yourself together, trying not to lose it over Cas being missing and why Sam doesn't seem to fucking remember that he only goes ghost on you when he's deep in something—and fuck, Cas is just _gone,_ Sammy—when you spot the pamphlets for some treatment center at the edge of the table.

Wait, is that…are those for _rehab?_

"I just thought…" Sam starts stuttering, and yeah, he better be fucking stuttering. "I just want you to get better, Dean. It might do you some good to get away for a while, to get away from all… _this._ "

Is he serious? Is he goddamn serious? "How many times do I have to tell you, Sam? I'm fine! What, the old ball and chain routine isn't enough; you gotta ship me off to this"—you read the name on the brochure—"Still fucking Waters Treatment Facility?"

"I'm just trying to help!"

"You wanna help? You want me to get better?" You humor him with a half-ass smirk that sprouts into a snarl. "Finding Cas is me getting better!"

"Dean," he says, and he pauses long enough that you just might clock him right there. "We've been through this before. Cas—"

"I'm not giving up on him."

"Dean—"

"So, what, you just gonna bail on him, then, huh? Like you bailed when Cas 'n' me got our asses drop-kicked straight to purgatory?"

"Really? You're _still_ bringing that up?"

"And why shouldn't I? Family doesn't jump ship when you hit a dog, Sam! Family sticks together, and Cas is family! Cas is…" Your breath's suddenly running ragged, like the words are being ripped from your chest. "Dammit, I'm not giving up on him!"

And just like that, his face relaxes into something that's an awful lot like pity. It's a hit straight to the gut that sends you reeling, your eyes starting to burn as you feel the back of your jaw clench. Can't even bear to look at him; can't help the hand balling into a fist because it's the only reaction that makes sense to you.

You wish he'd just get mad at you again.

"You should get some sleep." He lays a hand on your shoulder. "Maybe you'll feel better in the morning."

Yeah. Fat chance of that happening.

After Sam leaves, you get to work combing through the Men of Letters archives.

Time to Marty McFly this bitch.

*****

You eventually get some shut-eye, but not until after you're elbow-deep in (and probably drooling on) various texts on time travel. Riding the subconscious express lands you back in that upscale hotel for the first time since your stint in the hospital, and everything's the same as it was before: an endless maze of blue doors all leading to different destinations, realities, parallel universes…whatever the fuck they're supposed to be. Any way you shape it, it's like you're stuck in a Philip K. Dick novel, except maybe on a lower dose of shrooms.

There's no sign of cowboys or detectives or Elvis this time. Instead, you discover a college campus, a courthouse, an emergency room, some kinda Chinese-lookin' city from the future with a bunch of creepy robots—and is that a friggin' _space station?_ Not gonna lie; a part of you is tempted to do a little portal jumping because dude. Flying. _Cars._ But last thing you need is to get trapped up shit creek without a paddle, and even though you don't really got the rule book for how this place works, your best bet's probably finding Cas again. Long as the guy doesn't freaking supernova you.

You stop just before turning a corner, picking up on the sound of some chick singing close by—some real old school diva-type stuff. It's ringing in clearer than the record player from your last visit, but it's still got this strange feeling like you know you should know it, but…whatever; you're not gonna waste twenty minutes playing "Name That Tune." One thing you do know is that following the music did you right before, and guess that means you better get your dancing shoes on.

Behind this door, it's a…jazz club? Fancy one, too, with a full band up on stage, chandeliers everywhere, and champagne up the wazoo. Everyone's decked out in monkey suits or cocktail dresses, and you're feelin' a bit underdressed in your pj's, but no one seems to be giving you any weird looks so far. As you sneak a couple of crab cakes from the buffet line, you spy a poster for an upcoming costume ball. Date reads, "October 31st, 1947."

It really shouldn't be a surprise, knowing that in some other dimension the Jetsons are probably whizzing around, but holy shit, you're in 1947. Awesome.

As you head through the dining area, you're drawn to the blonde bombshell behind the mic stand, all dolled up in a little red number. She's gorgeous, no question about it, and the way she sidles up to the grand piano tells you that girl's trouble with a capital T. Like some femme fatale from a film noir, those hips making an entrance before getting up close and personal with the private eye propping his legs up on the desk.

And then you spot Columbo, sitting front and center.

"She's very good," he says when you take a seat.

You'll be honest: singing isn't exactly what you're paying attention to. "Yeah, I s'pose." You eyeball an empty martini glass, wondering when one of the servers is gonna come around with the bubbly. "So, uh…what's with the old Hollywood theme?"

Cas keeps his eyes forward, but there's a hint of a small smile at the edge of his mouth. "You seem to like it. You always had a certain sense of theatrics."

"What?" You snort as you lean back in your chair, brushing a thumb across your nose. "No, I don't." So maybe there's that one time you got all slicked up in cowboy duds when you took a trip back to the Old West, but hey, when in Rome, man. And that other time you were an actual freakin' Untouchable. And then Charlie's whole Moondoor—okay, whatever, so you're a bit of a nerd when it comes to history shit, but that secret's going with you to the grave. "What's that got to do with anything, anyway?"

Apparently, your question isn't important because the dude just ignores you, instead watching the couples making their way onto the dance floor. Well, they're certainly not leaving room for Jesus. "You, uh, thinkin' about asking one of those broads to dance?" You nudge him, nodding towards the chick with the pink flower in her hair. "She's cute."

His head jerks like you've startled him, eyes blinking down at your hands for a moment before looking away again. "No."

"C'mon, don't wanna dance with a pretty girl? Not even a little bit?" You waggle your eyebrows at him, toeing his shoe. "You angels got two left feet, or—"

"I'm not interested in them."

Christ almighty. Five years later, and he still doesn't get the concept of a wingman? Your eyes roll back, remembering the summer you tried dragging him to a strip club. And if he fucked up a lap dance without raising a finger, you can only imagine what would happen if Cas actually had to move his own limbs.

You're pretty sure it'd be hilarious, though.

"O- _kay,_ " is all you end up heaving out, leaning forward onto your elbows. "What's really going on here, Cas? I'm guessing this is just another head trip, and I know you don't go dream walkin' unless…"

Then it dawns on you. Hollywood, the vintage tunes…all the other retro crap. 19-fucking-47. "That note…that was you, wasn't it?"

Cas tenses up.

"Is Bart behind this? What, he slap on a zoot suit and shanghai you back in time?"

He's still keepin' quiet. Just stares down at the table as his face screws up tighter than you've ever seen it.

Shit, it's bad. _Real_ bad.

"Cas, buddy, you gotta level with me here." You squeeze his shoulder, and you think you feel him shudder at the touch. "Are we talking like Pontiac, Illinois bad? That dickbag lays a hand on you, I swear to God—"

"Don't come looking for me, Dean. You won't like what you find." Before you can spit out a why, he says, "You never do."

"What're you talking about? What'd that bastard do to you?"

He's trembling as he pushes up from the table, and your throat closes up when he finally turns around. There's red in his eyes like he's been…shit, like he's been crying. "Goodbye, Dean."

Okay, you're officially freaked out now.

"Cas, seriously, what the—"

"I said goodbye, Dean!"

You grab him by the arm to pull him back, but he wrenches himself away, accidentally knocking you into the table and leaving you to deal with all the gawking from the onlookers as he makes a break for it.

Oh, hell, no. He's not getting away from you this time.

You bust through the entry to the kitchen, pots and pans clanging onto the floor as you chase him down the service hallway. For a guy with his wings clipped, Jesus, he can move fast. You lose track of how many doors you barrel through until you suddenly find yourself in so deep that you don't know heads from tails anymore—and _godfuckingdammit,_ angel Houdini's just pulled another one right under your nose.

No. No way in hell you're failing him again. Not like purgatory; not like freakin' Godstiel…you just…

You _can't._

You try to catch your bearings, hands on your knees and heart working harder than Baby's V8. Seems like you got two options: either the exit or the blue door leading back the way you came.

Something tells you he's still here. He's gotta be here.

You put your money on blue and walk through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song from the final dream scene is [Jessy Carolina's cover of "After You've Gone."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4rDVb8q8KWw)


	3. Enter G-Man

It's crunch time when you're back in the waking world, tearing apart the archives for spells, chants, artifacts—anything with the juice to blast you to the past. It's slim pickings without any heavenly mojo on your hands, and not like you can just summon the God of Time anymore (a strategically-placed olive branch took care of that), but that don't mean there isn't something else out there. Don't suppose this bunker's got a flux capacitor lying around, huh?

Most of what you end up finding is a bunch of theoretical junk written by dudes who clearly weren't getting laid (even _Donnie Darko_ makes more sense to you than this) until you finally land on something by this J.S. person about a "Key of Time." Supposedly, it's got the ability to open a portal to anywhere you want to go—past, present, or future. Now that sounds like it's more up your alley. And even better, good ol' J.S. was a Man of Letters, which means this key might actually be hidden somewhere in the bunker.

Emphasis on "hidden," apparently, because it's not till after three hours of uncontrollable sneezing and rummaging through all the dusty old crap you really wish you'd pestered Sam into organizing that you come across a small wooden box. Inside is an iron key with an unusual, kinda swirly-looking design, and you immediately recognize it from the text.

Yahtzee.

Now you just gotta dress the part.

*****

Sam catches you later in your room as you're straightening the knot in your tie. "Glad to see you're in a better mood, but…" He cocks an eyebrow when you do up the buttons on your waistcoat. "What's with the getup?"

You grab the fedora you dug out of storage, sliding your fingers across the charcoal brim as you pull it down over your head. Always knew it'd come in handy again someday. "We're gonna be Untouchables, Sammy. Time-traveling Untouchables."

"Um. Okay." He shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorway. "But, uh…isn't it a little early for Halloween?"

Yeah, you really don't need to be hearing any comments from the peanut gallery right now. "It's not a freakin' costume, Sam. Cas is stuck in 1947, and we're gonna go get him."

Amazing how that gets him to stiffen up. "What? How do you know?"

"He told me, 'kay? Dude's been poking around in my brain again. That note I was talking about? It's from him. Really should trust my hunches more often, man."

If Sam takes that personally, he doesn't show it, too busy chewing it over while you're tossing the necessities into your duffle. "So, I mean…what did he say?"

You're quiet as you think back to your dream, remembering how shaken up Cas was. _Don't come looking for me, Dean._ Best you can figure, he means it's a trap, but you'll be damned if you're gonna let that stop you. "Not much, actually. All's I know is that it's not gonna be pretty. Remember when we had to go track down Jimmy Novak?"

"Cas' vessel? What, you think they cracked Jimmy—er, Cas now, I guess; not really sure how that works—uh, cracked him open and started torturing him?"

Ding, ding, ding; tell him what he's won, Johnny. "Last time Cas went dream hopping was when we found Jimmy in that factory, and you saw that place. Like Cherubzilla plowed right through it."

"They're…not actually cherubs; they're—"

"To-may-to, to-mah-to; I don't really friggin' care. Point is, Cas is in trouble, and we gotta go rescue his ass."

Sam crosses his arms. "So, Bartholomew?" Eureka, the kid can be taught. "What'd you say that guy's name was? Roy Earle?"

You nod. "Told you it can't be a coincidence. I'm guessing there's probably some sort of setup waiting for us if he's smart, so we better find a way to pop in and out real quick."

"Okay, yeah. We'll just…pop in and out. Of 1947. Right." His confidence is touching. "How exactly do you plan to do that without angels or…pagan gods, for that matter? I know Henry used a blood sigil to bounce forward to our time, but I thought that only takes you directly to your kin."

"And we don't got any family out on the west coast, least not any I know about. But I got something even better." You show him the iron key, cracking a smile. "O ye of little faith."

Sam blinks. "What is that?"

"The Key of Time," you announce, maybe a little too proudly. "Shove it into any lock, and you can go anywhere you want just by thinking about the place. All it needs is for you to whisper it a few sweet nothings, and it'll open right up."

"You're kidding."

Your grin flatlines. "Yeah, Sam, it's all a joke. I mean, I've only been turning the bunker upside down just to, you know, save Cas. Remember when that was a thing we did? Save people? Or did I just imagine it all?"

"Yeah, I know, Dean, but…a key that opens up any door in any time period by the sheer will of thought? Isn't that a bit…convenient?"

Dude _really_ needs to stop being a buzzkill. "What other options do we have? Unless you got any ideas, my bank is broke."

He huffs out a sigh, and he sounds about as fed up as you feel. "Listen, I'm just saying…maybe it's not exactly what it seems. Maybe—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're always 'just saying.' It's gonna work, okay?" Jesus, could he at least pretend to humor you for a second? "And besides, if Bart really is behind all this, you can bet your ass it isn't just about Cas. Only two reasons people go back in time: to save a loved one, or because they're an evil son of a bitch bent on making the world burn. Either way, the future's screwed, and there's no way in hell I'm sittin' through another depressing Ashton Kutcher movie only to wake up with my limbs blown off. You really want that douchebag rewriting our entire existence as we know it?"

Sam's shaking his head like he's trying to scrub the image from his brain. That, or he's trying to figure out which douchebag you're referring to. "Okay, so, fine…what do we do?"

You glance him over. "Well, first off, you look like a, uh…" Chuckling, you remember your run-in with Eliot Ness. "Bindle stiff."

"What the hell is a bindle stiff?"

Would it kill him to look a little more impressed? "It's 1940s lingo, man. It's…" But Sam's still rocking the blank stare, and with the military surplus garb, it's about the only thing he's rocking right now. "Never mind; we don't got time, anyway. We'll get you some new clothes when we get there." You slip on your suit jacket, nodding at him. "Grab the duffle, and let's open sesame this shit."

The two of you head out into the hallway, shutting your bedroom door and inserting the key into the lock. You read that it helps if you have something physical linking you to your destination, so you pull out the folded note, concentrating on the words "De Longpre" and "Wilcox" as you rattle off the Latin mumbo jumbo you memorized from the spell book. And maybe just for good measure, you think of Cas, too. Hold on, buddy; you're coming.

Sam starts side-eyeing you when the key glows an eerie kinda blue, and even you're hesitant to touch it, but hey, you've done crazier for less.

Instead of home sweet home, there's a gust of warm air as the door opens out onto some city street, the sidewalks crowded with people venturing out for a night on the town. You hear the honk of a Studebaker as a Cadillac LaSalle rushes by, and you'd probably be popping a major car boner if you weren't so focused on the fact that those models haven't been in production for, like, decades.

Then you spot the street signs: De Longpre and Wilcox.

Holy crap, the key actually works.

You nudge your brother, wadding the scribbled paper into your pocket. "Eh, eh? What'd I tell you, Debbie Downer?" And you'll admit that you're probably a little smugger than what's good for you, because even you know in the back of your mind that things have a nasty habit of biting you in the ass no matter what it is—comes with the job description, you s'pose—but you'll deal with it when it gets to that point, like you always do. In the meantime? You're gonna milk it for all it's worth.

"Don't worry, Sammy," you tell him as you take the duffle bag and clap him on the shoulder. "I'll show you the ropes. This ain't my first rodeo." Motioning at him to take the key, you roll your shoulders before going in. Should be like riding a bike by now, right?

Not so much. Soon as you step through, the door slams shut behind you. Leaving you without the key.

And without Sam.

"Sonuva…Sam! Sammy!" You frantically jiggle the handle, giving the door a good pounding, but it's no use. You've already crossed over, and instead of the door to your bedroom, it's an entrance to some clothing store. Which is closed for business. Obviously.

"Well, that's just fan-freakin'-tastic!" You're about to whip out the Colt and start shooting the damn thing open when you realize you have an audience. From the looks on their faces, you don't know who's gonna shit themselves first.

"I, uh…" Clothing store…it's a clothing store, right? "Heh, missed the sale." That's the wrong response, apparently, because their eyes just got ten times wider, and—oh, God, it's a women's dress shop.

You've never turned tail so fast in your life.

Fuck, first you lost Cas; now you've lost track of Sam. All right, so maybe portal jumping isn't the most spectacular idea you've ever had, but things usually give you at least ten seconds before all goes to hell (okay, more like five). Your only hope is that Sam's got the key back in 2014 and could still make the leap. Maybe you just need to wait for him?

After a good fifteen minutes of searching the immediate area, though, Sam's still a no-show, and you need a new plan. Sam's a smart guy; if he's back home safe and sound, he'll figure out a way to get to you. If he's in trouble and somehow ended up in timey-wimey limbo, you're gonna need some angelic assistance, and that means paying ol' Barty a visit and laying on a bit of that Winchester charm. God, how you're gonna love getting your hands on him. Whatever he's done to Cas, you're gonna do it to him seven times over, carving him up and hollowing him out till he—

You don't get to finish that thought. A blare of sirens zips past, cop cars screeching to a halt further down the street. Something big's going down, and you're curious to take a little look-see yourself when out of the corner of your eye, you spy a sudden burst of light from the alleyway across the street.

Well, now that's interesting.

The alley, which turns out to be next to some Chinese place, is empty by the time you manage to sneak past all the commotion. Huh, you coulda sworn—wait, is that someone's shoe? You walk towards the back, and it's someone's shoe, all right. A very _dead_ someone's shoe.

"Gotta lay off the MSG, man," you say as you kneel down, rolling the body over. You instantly groan when you see the eyes. Nothing but a pair of smoking craters.

Yeah, that can't be good.

You're about to fumble around for some ID when a flashlight hits you in the face. You're gonna go with yes, that's a gun they just pulled out of their pocket, and no, they are not happy to see you. "Hands behind your head! Now!"

Wow. You really suck at this whole time-traveling-and- _not_ -getting-arrested thing.

*****

They shove you in lockup, which is pretty much your standard germ-infested, piss-reeking jail cell—and gross, you don't even wanna think about what those bed stains are. You don't know how long you've been stuck here since they put you behind bars; only that you've got a mighty need for a meatball sandwich right now. Where's one of those little comment cards so you can tell them how much the service sucks in this place?

Eventually, the guard drags your ass into the interrogation room, and you're guessing the detective that comes in to give you the third degree is this Cole Phelps guy you've been overhearing about. Looks like the poster boy for an Eagle Scout; dude's friggin' younger than you.

"Now…" He settles down in the chair across from you, wearing one of those tight-lipped, shit-eating grins. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

Really? That's his opening line? It's like you're trapped in every bad procedural cop show ever.

You lean forward, the cuffs clinking against the table as you fold your hands together. "I know I look rough around the edges, but I like it tender."

Doesn't even get a snort out of the kid. "You're a funny guy, Mr…" He flips through his notepad and pulls out the pencil from behind his ear. "Lou Gramm, is it?"

You tilt your head real innocent-like like you're deep in thought, puckering your lips for added effect. "I like to think so."

"Well, I don't think you'll be laughing when you're facing no less than a life sentence for the murders of Steven and Lisa Walsh."

There's two of 'em now? You shift a little uneasily in your chair, but your eyes don't leave him. "Is that who the guy lying tits up in the alley was?"

And it's back to the shit-eating grin again. If he's gonna stare you down like that, you feel it's only fair to warn him that it's not a game he's gonna win. You've had more than enough practice with a certain blue-eyed angel.

"What's really funny," he says, "is that according to your identification, you're a licensed private investigator, but there's no record of you in the system. In fact, there's no record of a Lou Gramm, period. Care to elaborate?"

The thought crosses your mind to pull the Untouchable card—you could tell Phelps it's an undercover job and that Eliot Ness'll vouch for you. Problem is, Ness only knows you by your real name, and you can't risk exposing yourself, not when you're a sitting duck and you don't know how many are donning the halo in this joint. Phelps could be one of 'em.

You decide to go with the half-truth. "All right, you got me. Couldn't afford the license, so I drew up a fake."

"You do realize it's a crime to impersonate—"

"An officer of the law, sure. P.I.'s not an officer of the law."

"You mean to tell me that whatever activities you were planning on doing with that license were entirely legal?" You shrug. Probably not entirely, no. "Why would you need one in the first place?"

"Looking into a case."

"And what were you investigating?"

"It's private," you say. Then add for emphasis: "Classified."

The edge of his mouth's getting twitchy. "If you don't tell me what's really going on, Mr. Gramm—if that is your real name—I can assure you that maintaining your client's privacy will be the least of your worries."

Detective Baby Face's got a look to him like he's just a ticking bomb waiting to blow his top, but you press your luck and don't budge. You could do the staring contest all night, asswipe. You'd just prefer to do it with someone more your age.

He finally changes the subject. "Who's your partner?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Witnesses saw you trying to force an entry into the J.M. Gold's only a few minutes prior to your arrest. They heard you shouting the name Sam." Your throat lumps up when he asks, "Who's Sam?"

Something's runnin' cold up your spine, but your expression's rock solid. "Must've misheard me 'cause your guess is as good as mine."

"But you _were_ there?" Yeah, you're shutting up now. "Was breaking and entering part of your so-called investigation?"

You shake your head. "I don't know what to tell you, Detective. You're wasting your time." Freakin' wasting your time, too. "You'd be better off investigating whatever's crawled up your butt because the only time I've ever had a face like yours is when I couldn't poop for a week. Seriously, man. Should really look into that."

"You think this is a joke?"

"I think irritable bowel syndrome's no laughing matter, sir."

"You're after something, Gramm"—he's nearly talking through his teeth now—"and I _will_ find out what that is." You're shakin' in your wingtips. "Where were you this afternoon at 4:20 p.m.?"

The year 2014, but you're guessing that won't fly. "Home. Reading up on some files."

"Anyone who can corroborate?"

"No, but I got a friend who can do the Charleston."

He presses his lips together like a real chump, but at least he's learning quick there's not a whole lotta headway to be made with you. Instead, he flops a large-sized wallet down on the table, zipping it open. Lock picks.

Shit, they're yours.

"That's a swell set you have there. Top end. Your private eye work usually require you to carry these around?" When you don't offer up a response, he continues, "There was an attempted burglary at the Walshes' home. We found Lisa dead in the study." Bet it was Colonel Mustard with the knife. "Not only do we have multiple accounts of you trying to break into Gold's, we caught you standing over Steven Walsh's body just a few hours after his wife's death. I'm having a difficult time believing that's a coincidence."

"You can believe whatever you want, buddy; it's not me."

Phelps matches your sneer. "If denial is your high card, you're in deeper than you think." He scrawls a couple notes in that stupid diary of his, and it gives you the creepy sense he's doing more head shrinking than detective…ing. "What's your relation to Lisa Walsh?"

"Non-existent. Never even heard of her."  
  
"So then you weren't aware that she was having an affair?"

"Why the hell would I care that some chick's knockin' boots with some other guy?"

"Or maybe you care because maybe…you're that guy."

What?

"Did Walsh find out about you and his wife; is that it?"

Seriously, _what?_

He eases back into his seat, the douchebag acting like he's got the floor now. "Maybe you are a petty thief. Maybe she wasn't supposed to be there when you went after your mark. Maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You didn't mean to do it, right?"

Something curdles in your gut. You don't like where this guy is going.

"You want to know what I think?" No, but you get the feeling he's gonna bore you with the yadda, yadda, anyway. "I think you did mean to. We searched their place top to bottom, and nothing of value turned up missing. So what was it, Lou?" Oh, you on a first-name basis now? "We have a record of Walsh threatening to bump off whoever was sleeping with Lisa. Maybe this wasn't a robbery at all. Maybe the robbery was just a cover story, and after you caught wind of what Walsh was planning to do to you, you decided to take things into your own hands. You took care of his wife while you knew she was home alone; then you tracked him down after he closed up shop and killed him in cold blood!"

"Whoa, whoa, wait—dead guy's the store owner?"

"And I'm supposed to buy that you didn't know that? Don't fuck with me, Lou; we searched your bag. Quite the arsenal for a gumshoe. What's the salt for? Your twisted idea of pouring literal salt in the wound after you burn their eyes out?"

Guess you did bring one of those handheld suckers along, didn't you? But Jesus, he's got circumstantial evidence at best (and that's being generous), and this guy's already off the rails? What kind of training did he go through? Dickweed Police Academy?

"You really think a blow torch could do something like that? The nozzle I got on that thing, you'd set the whole fucking head on fire, and what happened to your vic? That's some surgical precision shit." Phelps doesn't respond, so you tell it to him straight. "You know what I think? I think you're grasping at straws, and you got absolutely no fucking clue what's going on."

You're actually not sure whether he's in the ring with Bartholomew's circus of dicks or not, but it's a test to gauge his reaction, see if he does know anything. He stiffens in his chair, and he's good at getting it up; you'll give him that. Not so much with the keeping it up—you catch the telltale flex in the back of his jaw, the way he can't look you in the eyes anymore, and yeah, he's clueless as hell. Probably scared out of his mind, too. You're kinda starting to feel sorry for the poor bastard. Maybe. Nah, not really. "Detective, if you know what's good for you, only thing you should be worrying about right now is watching your back. I'm guessing the Walshes aren't the first of these husks to show up, and they won't be the last."

He's still talking stern to you, but he's not wearing his angry eyebrows anymore. "That's not public knowledge. How did you come across this information?"

"If I told you, you'd just toss me in the loony bin."

It gets quiet. Too quiet. And then it's like a switch flips, setting down his pad of paper as he seems to relax. "Maybe that's where you belong." A smile stretches thin across his lips. "You're a sick man, Lou."

"Well, nobody's perfect."

"You're a killer. A _monster._ And I can read it all over your face."

On the outside, you don't even blink.

On the inside, you barely choke down the bile.

Phelps gets up from his seat, calling for the guard. "We're done here."

The jerks hold you overnight, though at least they do you the courtesy of uncuffing you before throwing you back in. Fuck, your wrists hurt; it's like they actually tried to cut off your circulation. You wish that was your only problem, though, because what Phelps said there at the end's got you thinking that maybe you pegged him wrong. Shit, maybe he is one of those birds. More like a dodo, maybe, but for all you know, he's going back to mom with the worm. Not that you coughed up much, but it's still more than you're supposed to know.

Ugh, how could you be such a fucking idiot? First rule, Winchester: everybody's lying. _Everybody._

Unfortunately, the guards have a few more light bulbs on upstairs, so your usual tricks ain't working on them. Seems your best bet for getting outta here is the next time they come get you and try muscling you over a little more…that is, if they haven't already figured you out. You gotta think of a plan and quick, but you're so dog-tired, you can't keep your eyes open more than two seconds.

At some point, you must've completely conked out. Next thing you know, you've got an achy back and a yawn the size of Texas. You make about forty different faces as you try to sit up, still feeling heavy with sleep as you eventually pick up the sound of rain tapping at the window. Guess a storm started rolling through, too, while you were dozing off. When you rub your eyes, you're hoping you'll open them to find a change of scenery, but nope, it's still the same gray…and gray…and uh, just a sec…gray.

Except…that's weird. Maybe your brain's just playing tricks on you in the dark, but there's something on the cinderblock that definitely wasn't there before. You can't say you know what it is, exactly. Looks like some sort of…wing pattern? Maybe "pattern" isn't the right word; it's more like someone smeared—

A crack of thunder scares the bejesus outta you, and by the time you get your lungs working again, the image is gone. It feels a little shaky in your chest, but you laugh, anyway, realizing your eyes just needed to adjust. You're seein' things; that's all it is.

The heartbeat's slowing down now, and you rest your head against the wall as you close your eyes. It's not any kind of comfort, but you say the words all the same, hoping he's got his ears on. "I know we're gonna get through this. Like we always do. But looks like we both need a miracle right now."

Soon as the prayer leaves your lips, you hear a door buzz open, followed by two people arguing. You can't make out what they're saying, but by your best guess, it's after two in the morning, so whatever it is, it's gotta be interesting.

You get up to take a peek through the bars, recognizing Phelps as one of the two. You can't see the other guy too well in this lighting, but he must be a big shot, sporting the black suit and tie with the white button down shirt. He's even got the old school clip and nerd specs. A fed? The hell's a fed doing here this time of night?

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, Agent Beyoncé"—Agent _Beyoncé?_ —"but this man is our only lead—"

"This _man,_ " the agent interrupts, and they're getting closer now, "is wanted in fifteen states for first degree murder, grand theft auto, and public indecency."

The public indecency's a hobby, really.

"There are bigger concerns here, Detective Phelps. You don't know this man like I do. He's far craftier than he seems."

Hey, what's that supposed to mean?

"Gramm is a national threat, and all you have is a skeleton crew on duty?"

"I assure you, sir, these officers are the best we—"

"And your best isn't good enough. He's coming with me."

They reach your cell, and when the suit turns to face you, you're glad you got a body gluing you all together because your eyes'd be on the floor otherwise.

Holy shit, _Cas?_


	4. Reunited, and It Feels So...Shit, Wrong Decade

Well, that's not a plot twist you were expecting.

Getting the cuffs slapped back on you and being manhandled your way out of the station isn't exactly your idea of a happy reunion (well, when it involves the _actual_ police), but you'll take it. Cas seems to enjoy jostling you around a little too much, though, and— _fuck,_ hey, is that really necessary? "Jeez, not even gonna buy me dinner first?"

He shoves his mouth right up against your ear, his grip like a friggin' vice around your arm. "Quiet. Some of Bartholomew's followers may be here."

 _Ooh, Cas, you're makin' me all tingly inside_ is at the tip of your tongue, but you keep your piehole shut. And for the record, it's a knee-jerk reaction, okay? You'd be saying the same things to Detective Douche Face.

Outside, there's a black 1940s Lincoln Coupe waiting for you. Great, Cas. If they haven't found you out yet, they'll just think you're working with the Godfather. Which, actually, would be a whole 'nother level of awesome, but you gotta focus here. Cas fumbles for the key as he tries to get the handcuffs off of you, and you bitch at him to hurry up. What's really making you uneasy, though, is that giving them the slip was way too—

"Castiel! Bartholomew sends his regards!"

And there it is.

"Hashmal," Cas says to the guy wearing one of the beat cops working the night shift. "We don't have to do this."

Hash Browns whips out his blade, twirling it as he tosses it from one hand to the other. Those kinda party tricks supposed to impress you? "Funny how you say that, Castiel, but it always seems to end in blood, anyway."

You size him up, and dude's barely a half-pint. Cas' got his own angel blade out, and even though you've only got a pair of handcuffs at your disposal, the two of you together could take him in one lick, easy. "How 'bout you practice your little baton routine later, and let's just get straight to the ass-kicking, huh?"

"Still have the Winchester on your leash, I see." He's leerin' over at you now. "Or is it the other way around? I'm never really sure."

"Oh, trust me, buddy," you tell him. "My bite's worse than my bark."

"Why do you put up with him, Castiel? You were better than that. Better than… _this._ " He makes some kinda gesture towards you, and you're tempted to knock him flat on his ass right there. "These humans are nothing but savage, depraved little beasts. And they will always bite the hand that feeds them. But…I believe you already know that." You see his grip tighten on the blade as he turns back towards Cas, your heart pumping faster as you steel yourself. "Perhaps it is a mercy, then, to put you out of your misery."

He lunges for Cas first, and you don't waste any time wrangling him into a chokehold with your cuffs. But you didn't count on him being such a squirrely bastard, and next thing you know, you've got a mouthful of asphalt. Cas scrambles to yank him off of you, but not before the asshat gets you all nice and bloodied up with a couple of blows to the kisser. And you just had this suit dry cleaned, too. Awesome.

You spot your opening when an angel blade hits the ground, ripe for the picking. You hustle towards it as Bart's flunky pins Cas up against the car, and it's not a moment too soon that you snatch it up. Hash Browns manages to wrestle away the one weapon they got between them and starts whaling on Cas just for shits and giggles.

If you weren't pissed earlier, hell, you're angry now.

You swoop in and give 'im a nasty one-two punch, thrusting that blade right through his chest. And God, it feels so damn good, lighting him up like a Christmas tree and watching him crumple underneath you, pushing the blade even deeper just to see his face twist and burn.

You don't know how, but it's like a high's been triggered, and before you can stop yourself, you're cruising down one bad fucking trip. All that agony, all that pain…you feel it churning, trembling in your forearm, shooting through your veins all the way to your brain, and suddenly, it's too much. Fuck… _fuck._ Fuck, it's _too much—_

"Dean! Dean! Are you all right?" Cas sounds like a tin can somewhere between your ears, and he's pawing at the sides of your face like it'll get your lips to start flappin', but your head's still stuck on a fucking Tilt-A-Whirl. Th'hell did…did you just pass out again? Where's the fucking warning label on this ride?

Cas makes a couple more desperate attempts to shake you fully awake—and whoa there, buddy; easy on the merchandise. He's got you in his arms, though, and you wonder just how long he's been holding you like that, eyes as blue as they are wide. You'd tell him to lighten up, but his cheeks seem to got that covered. Jesus, they're probably paler than yours.

"My hero," is what you end up saying instead, thick with a drunken kind of stupor and sounding less sarcastic and more gay than you'd like, but whatever. All things considered, you'd rather have your face planted in his armpit than on asphalt, and you'd be lying if his shoulder isn't lookin' like the perfect place to snuggle up and catch some Z's. And is that peppermint you smell?

Oh, God, you have a concussion, don't you?

"Come on." Cas pulls you back up on your feet, making sure he's got a firm grab on you as he opens the passenger door. "We need to get you to a hotel."

"No…Sammy. We gotta get Sammy. I left him behind; he—"

You don't realize till after you take a step that you still don't got your sea legs, and Cas has to prop your heavy ass up against the car to keep you from falling again. "Dean, no, you're injured. We need to get you to safety. Sam will be fine; he can wait."

"So how about some Angel Potion No. 9?"

"You need medical care."

"Medical…?" You might not have all spark plugs firing, but there's only one thing that could possibly mean. "Wait, you human again?"

He tells you to duck your head, fetches a rolled up t-shirt to help you stop the bleeding and shuts the door. "We'll talk later. Just relax. The dizziness will pass."

Course. Why should you ever expect a freaking answer out of anyone?

You fight to keep awake as Cas drives you to wherever he's camping out, taking the back roads to stay out of the main streets. The rain splattering on the windows ain't exactly helping, though, and add that to the fact that this ride's so smooth, your buns are beginning to feel like butter, you think you might just slip into some sorta hypnotic state if you don't get Cas to talk to you. 'Sides, he owes you an explanation.

"So what gives, huh? You tell me not to come after you, make it seem like we've got a threat level: red on our hands, and you're out running around playing dress up?"

He takes his sweet time adjusting the rearview mirror, like he's figuring a way to avoid the question. "You were in trouble."

Well, that's got your eyebrows raised. "You heard me?"

"You were about to be framed for murder." Eh, people have accused you of more at dinner parties. Long story. "Not only would have it alerted Bartholomew to your presence here, it's hardly conducive to getting you back home. Which is precisely where you should be right now."

Still doesn't answer your question. "Tough, you're stuck with my ass whether you like it or not. And why the hell would I go back home, anyway? Once we find Sam, we're taking care of big, bad Bart, right?" Cas doesn't respond. "Right?"

He's shaking his head, huffing out a sigh. "Dean…"

"Oh, don't 'Dean' me. What aren't you telling me?"

"It's pointless. You won't understand." Then he gets quiet again. "You seem to lack the ability to."

Never stopped him from enlightening you on the exact science of angel radio. All ten bajillion frequencies. "Then _help_ me understand. Because this…this just doesn't add up." You wait a couple of seconds, but he's still pleading the fifth. Fine, you'll try a different tactic on the guy. "Listen, I appreciate you pulling me outta there. Really do. But…what the hell, man? I thought…Jesus, I thought you might've been dead! I mean, I'm not crazy, right? That was really you poking at my noodle?"

He nods, maybe a little reluctantly. "Yes, that was me. A…form of me."

"Well, however you did it—astral projection or some 'Obi-Wan, you're my only hope' shit—you were lookin' like…I dunno. Like…like something big's come crashing down, and—"

"You're in over your head, Dean."

"Like that's ever mattered before? I don't care, Cas. Spill it."

He's got a twitch in his ears as he's gritting his teeth together, but you eventually get it out of him that it's 'bout as much as you suspected. "Let me get this straight: one of Bart's cronies used a little time-traveling mojo and went squealing to him about you knockin' Caesar off the throne. So Bart flew the coop, and when you didn't go dark side with him, he went Guantanamo on you? Why? Wouldn't it have been easier to leave you out of it entirely? He had to've known you'd still tell him to go screw himself."

"I don't know. I suppose he was hoping for a different answer when he gave his ultimatum about joining forces again."

You let out a snort. "You know what they say about insanity—doin' the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

"I think he was planning to use me as bait before I escaped."

"Bait?"

Cas sighs. "You, Dean. To get to you. Why do you think I tried so hard to warn you?"

Okay, now that's throwing you off. "Me? What the hell's he got cooking up for me? I've never even had the pleasure of meeting his ugly mug in person. Thought it was you he wanted."

He doesn't offer anything more than a shrug. Helpful as ever.

"So he knows I'm here?" you ask.

"Not yet, I don't think. But he'll be expecting you."

"Well, maybe he's just baking me a cake with stripper filling."

He squints at you, and it almost puts a smile to your face. Ah, now there's the Cas you're used to seein'.

"You really shouldn't have come, Dean."

And the moment's ruined. "And _you_ really gotta stop saying that, okay? Man, why wouldn't I come?" You're almost hurt that it's even up for debate, but then again, guess it's not like you'll be winning any friend-of-the-year awards, neither. "I know…I know I've done a lot of shitty things these past few months. Kicking you out of the bunker and everything. Trusting that dickbag Zeke/Gadreel/whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is-these-days over you."

"Dean, you don't have to—"

"Let me finish, okay? What I'm saying is, I know I haven't exactly treated you right, and maybe…I don't know. Maybe there's nothing I can do about that now, much as I want to. But if you were knee-deep in something…didn't matter what it took, what it was…you know I'd do anything to get you out, right?"

"Yes. I know," he says, almost soft enough that you don't hear him, and you think you see a hand slip from the steering wheel and reach for your leg.

But you blink, and it's back to where it was.

You don't bother saying nothin' else after that; only sound between you two's the squeaky windshield wipers. Something's still off about this whole mess, but Cas…Cas is back in one piece. _Alive._

And right now, that means just about everything.

*****

You end up ditching the Lincoln for a convertible: a Cadillac series 62 with an ivory paint job. Not sure how Cas picked up a pretty girl like her, but color you impressed. Even more impressed that he's thought it all out, pulling the ol' switcheroo in case any cops have the mind to come after you. You give him a nod of approval as you take off in the new ride. "Kudos, man."

The hotel, however, ain't so easy on the eyes. Not surprisingly, it turns out to be the El Mar Hotel, the one and the same from the note you found back at the bunker. And _wow,_ it's a dump. Half the brick exterior's worn away, everyone you run into's probably on something, and even all the plants in the lobby look like they're gonna croak. It's got skeevy written all over it; exactly the kinda joint you'd see a two-bit hooker prowling around. Not to mention it's nowhere near a body of water, unless you count the puddle some drunk guy left in the side alley. Which explains the smell.

Guess if you really think about it, it's not that much different from the usual places you bunk while on the road, but come on. It's the forties. A little class?

Cas seems to resent your commentary; he is, after all, signed in as Marilyn Monroe. He's beaming when he tells you, "All the guests register under the names of celebrities here."

"Marilyn Monroe?" You're side-eyeing him hard until you realize, "Actually, I got nothin' against that." He nods towards the second floor, and you head up. "I prefer someone more like Bettie Page, honestly, but everybody's got a different flavor. Just, uh, don't start singing 'Happy Birthday.'"

"I'll try not to walk over any vents, either."

You nearly knock him back a set of stairs when you turn around. "Did you just make a joke? A pop culture joke?"

Before Cas can answer, though, you just about keel over when a sharp pain outta nowhere drills into your head— _jesusfuck,_ where'd that come from?

"Dean, what's wrong?"

He puts a hand to your back, but you wave him off. Thankfully, it doesn't seem like it's gonna stick around long. "No, I'm…I'm good."

"We should get you to a hospital—"

"No, it's fine. Just the aftershocks or somethin'." You actually don't know what the hell it is, but you'd rather ride it out before spending eight hours in the waiting room only to be told to rest up and drink plenty of fluids.

After a few more blinks, you remember him saying something about the Emperor and the Death Star. Back when you…wasn't there some kinda tradeoff with Tweedledumb for Tweedledumber? Shit, just how much are you forgetting?

"Didn't you also get a _Star Wars_  reference once? How are you Mr. _Entertainment Weekly_ now?"

"Metatron retconned me."

Oh. Okay. Perfect sense, Cas.

You roll your eyes as you continue up the steps, wondering if you're gonna be the one having a hard time keeping up with him. Least he won't be staring at you like a friggin' potato anymore. Heh, might be nice, having someone else around that gets your sense of humor. 'Cause Sam? Sam mostly just ignores you. And you? You're hilarious, dammit.

Cas' room is actually pretty tidy—two twin beds, decent-sized bathroom, even got a kitchenette—though it don't stop you from thinking about all the mold that's probably crawlin' around in the walls. But the john's clean enough, so you get to work fixing yourself up, stripping down to your undershirt and scrubbing away the blood. You got a split lip, the beginnings of a black eye, and a couple other nicks that you're hoping will turn into a really cool scar, but you got off easy considering you were expecting to see a dead ringer for Owen Wilson's nose in the mirror.

Cas butts in with a first aid kit, who apparently thinks he's Florence Nightingale. Without warning, the dude's getting all up in your space and dabbing some funky-smelling ointment on the cut above your brow, and you end up having to swat him away. " _Ow—_ hey, Cas, dammit…" Son of a bitch, that stings. "I got this, okay?"

It's weird, but he almost seems more startled than you. "Sorry, I…" He sets down the small pack of butterfly stitches, and then it's like he trails off somewhere in his head for a second. "Just thought you might need some assistance."

"I'm good, Cas. Really." He doesn't move. "You good?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Well."

Still doesn't move.

Yeah, this isn't awkward.

You motion with your eyes to give you some breathing room, and finally, the guy gets the hint, leaving you to go about your business. Some things never change.

Once you're all bandaged up, other senses start kicking back in, and you've got a serious hankering for steak right about now. Two would be nice: one for your belly and one for the attractive bruiser you got goin' on. But judging by the time on the dinky little wind-up clock, doubt you're gonna find a place that's open—and with how you're feelin', chances are you'd doze off and wake up covered in A1—so you settle for whiskey instead, grabbing the Jameson on the bedside table. "Sweet mother of God. Feels like it's been forever since I've had a drink." Sam never did get you that beer you asked for the other day, the jerk.

You offer the bottle back to Cas, but he shakes his head, sitting down on the bed across from you as he loosens his tie. You watch him as he takes off his shoes, lifting an eyebrow at the way he arranges them neatly on the floor next to the bed.

"So." You take a second swig, biting back the burn. "Human again."

He looks like he'd probably rather talk about cat penis. "Bartholomew…to discourage me from retaliation, I suppose, removed my grace. What was left of it, anyway." He gets preoccupied with the buttons on his cuffs. "Not that it was ever mine in the first place, but…"

Not his in the first place? Wait, wasn't he running outta juice or— _christonastick,_ it's back again; that pang that feels like someone's twisting a knife into your brain. It only lasts a matter of seconds, but fuck, this keeps up, and you're liable to go all stabbity on somebody.

For Cas' sake, you try to keep the funny faces to a minimum, throwing another shot down the hatch. "Didn't you tell me your batteries were running low? And once those were dead, you'd be like… _dead_ dead?"

"Using another angel's grace, one that the vessel isn't accustomed to…you could say it's like poison. Eventually, my body would have attempted to reject the dwindling grace, but by then, the damage would've been…irreparable."

"So the extraction actually saved you. Well, thank God for that, huh?"

"Don't worry about me," he says, shifting a bit further off the mattress, elbows on his knees. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know me. I get knocked down, but I get up again."

His nose wrinkles. "Chumbawamba is such an odd name."

There's an upwards crook at the corner of your mouth. Nope, never gonna get used to that.

He's still…staring's not the right term. Cas doesn't really stare at you; it's usually more like… _gazing,_ even though just the sound of that makes you think of moons and pizza pies and…ugh, never mind. Whatever he's doing with the eyes and the face and the… _whatever…_ he's still waiting for an actual answer from you. One you're not entirely thrilled to share, but maybe talking through it will do you some good.

"Honestly, I don't know about me, Cas. Whatever went down with Metatron, something must've dinged me up real bad. 'Cause it's like…I remember some things, but…mostly, it's just like…" Great, you don't even know the words you're fishing for. "It's like I'm a jigsaw with some pretty damn important pieces missing, and it's got me…I dunno. Kinda freaked out."

"Give it time, Dean. If you're already recalling certain things, I'm sure the rest of your memory will follow."

"Yeah, except time's never really been something on our side, has it?" You work a couple of fingers along your forehead. "I mean, can't believe I need to ask this, but you mind filling me in? What happened with Metamoron? Sam told me you got separated from us at some point, and I guess he ended up literally having to drag me outta there, but next thing I know, I've got a tube down my throat and I'm being pumped full of drugs." Speaking of which, you're gonna go ahead and prescribe yourself another dose of Jameson. "Man, if I shoved that blade up his ass and don't even remember, I'm gonna be pissed. At least tell me that dick rode his sweet chariot home."

He's chewing at his lip, mulling it over. "Well, you and Sam went straight for Metatron." Okay, how about something you don't know? "Gadreel and I attempted to infiltrate heaven, but—"

"Hold on—you teamed up with Gadreel?"

"He came to us wanting to make amends. I know you were still under the influence of the Mark, but…he wanted to save humanity just as much as you and me, Dean." Is that so? 'Scuse you if you're not entirely convinced. "When our plans were thwarted and we were imprisoned, he…he sacrificed himself to save me. To save all of us."

Huh. Well, you'll be damned.

"It gave me the chance to go after the tablet. I needed to get to Metatron's study, to break the connection and strip him of his power so you could defeat him once and for all, but…"

"But what?"

"I…" Cas stops, and even though his jaw's moving, nothing's coming out.

Then it hits you. "You don't actually know what happened, do you? 'Cause that's when Bart zapped you back to 1947 and almost made an angel kabob outta you."

He lowers his eyes. Guess you'll take that as a yes.

You feel something creeping up your arm, right where the Mark of Cain should be, but it's nothing but smooth skin. They're only echoes now—the humming of the Blade; the throbbing in the back of your head; the bloodlust in your gut.

Each time you thumb it over, it's like an itch you can't scratch.

"You wanted me to get rid of it," Cas says, like there's grit stuck in his throat. "You begged me to get rid of it."

Didn't even know that kind of thing was possible. "So…what, you magic erased it with your mojo or something?"

He runs a palm over his mouth. You can't tell if that's a nod he's making, but before you can glean any sorta sense from it, he jolts up from the bed, hunching over the table instead. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"For what?"

"I'll help you find Sam," he says as he straightens up again, though his shoulders still got a weight to them. "After that, perhaps it's better we go our separate ways."

"Whoa, you leavin'?"

"I can't…I couldn't…"

Is he getting choked up?

"What, the God rock? So what if Bart got the drop on you before we took out Metatron? Not your fault." You walk over to him, giving him a firm pat to the arm. "We'll fix it. Like we always do."

"Dean, please…" He pushes your hand away. "You're better off without me."

"Without you? Dude, when have we _ever_ been better without each other?" 'Cause seriously, does he even remember the last five years? "Me kicking you to the curb and working with not-Zeke and Crowley; you working with Crowley while you went on your worldwide Godstiel tour…only time it ever panned out for us is when we took shit down together. No, we do this, we do this right. The first time. You, me, Sammy…"

"Team Free Will," he says, though you don't get why he's sounding all sad about it.

So you tell him, yeah, Cas; that's exactly it. "You're family, man. Always have been. Powers or not, doesn't matter." He's avoiding your gaze, but you meet him at eye level and reel him in. "Hey, I need you to believe that, 'kay? It's never been about that. Least, you know," you shrug, maybe a little sheepishly, "'cept when I was sorta being a dickhead."

"Sort of?"

Okay, guess you deserve that. "A massive dickhead, all right? Sorry."

Then you notice the smirk he's trying to hide—and doing a terrible job of it. Bitch.

You plop back down on the bed, going for one more round of Jameson. Cas decides to join you this time. "'Sides, you kicked some pretty serious ass waltzin' into the station like that, laying down the law."

"I like to think I've learned from the best."

Modest, too.

He goes to take off his tie, throwing it on one of the hangers. Feels like it wasn't that long ago you were teaching him how to do up one of those damn things. "Nice threads, G-man. Pick those out yourself?"

Cas glances down, pretending to smooth over a jacket lapel. Aw, look. You made him blush. "A lovely old man helped me in the menswear section."

"Really? You? Went shopping?" Some things never cease to amaze you. Or amuse you, for that matter. "Well, look at you, bein' all resourceful and shit."

And, you know. Maybe the retro four eyes vibe isn't…all, uh. Bad. You mean…for a guy that's already dorky, anyway.

You eyeball the remaining whiskey. How much have you had?

The bed dips when he sits down next to you. Uh, oh. He's gone silent on you again. You blow out a sigh. "What is it, Cas?"

"What if…there are things that can't be fixed, Dean?"

You're really trying not to roll your eyes. Honestly. "Oh, don't give me that crap. We stopped the freakin' apocalypse. Whatever's goin' on, we'll figure it out, okay? Make things right because it's what we do. And if we can't do it right, well, then we'll do a damn good job of doing it wrong." You nudge him. "You with me?"

For once, he looks straight at you. "Always."

Funny how there's no space between you all of a sudden.

"Good…that's, uh…" Is there something in your throat? "Good."

You crane your neck towards the clock. Shit, it's after three a.m. "Well, I'm gonna hit the sack," you say, fighting off a yawn. "Sooner we get some shut-eye, sooner we can track down Sam." You're about to reach for your pillow when Cas starts in on the buttons of his shirt. That's all fine and dandy.

If he wasn't still sitting on your bed.

"You know you got your own place to sleep, right?"

"Oh."

_Oh?_

"Yes, of course."

Something tells you you're better off not reading into it.

You finish getting undressed yourself and turn off the light, settling in under the covers. For the first time since…ever…the chest's feelin' lighter, and you're breathing a little easier. 'Cause Cas is back, you're gonna find Sammy, and everything's gonna be A-OK.

You're looking forward to finally getting a good night's sleep.


	5. Ex-Angel with a Shotgun

It's downright ungodly getting up before the sun even pops out, and yet, here you are, stirring awake when something bumps the side of your bed. Ugh, Cas, fucking klutz. Probably just tripping over himself on the way to answer nature's call.

Or…maybe not. Because in about two seconds flat, you go from half-comatose to full-on rigor mortis stiff when you feel this weird kind of pressure bearing down on the mattress next to you, and—and oh, God. Please don't let that be something brushing against your forehead.

Breath sucked in, you slowly angle your head up at—oh, shit. That's…that's a fucking person. And they're fucking sitting on your bed. With their fucking fingers in your hair.

Yeah, okay, _no._

You carefully slide your hand underneath your pillow to grab the Colt, but you're groping at nothing but sheets. Dammit, all your stuff's still down at the police station, isn't it? Why didn't you think to…never mind; plan B. Fuck, what's your plan B? Run like hell? C'mon, Winchester, that all you can think of? Run like hell; let M.J. have his way with you; eeny meeny miney moe…all right, you're going with run like hell.

That is, till you get a glimpse of the guy when the first signs of light squeeze through the curtains, and—wait, is that who you think it is?

"Cas? What the—"

You're not sure who's spooked more, but he starts flickering like a faulty piece of wiring; then goes poof right before your eyes. Which, what? That might've been the kinda thing he'd been able to do as an angel, but he's human now. Vanishing into thin air isn't exactly on the menu anymore.

Not to mention that when you sit up and look over, you're hearing some pretty human-like noises from Cas' side of the room. Dude's sleeping like a friggin' log.

Seriously, _what the hell?_

Whatever it was, it don't seem keen on making a second appearance, so you shake it off and decide to go take a leak. You're not going to think about whether you got a few more dents to the melon than you bargained for when you took on the Mark. Truth is, you don't know if you really wanna know, and at five in the morning, you barely got the brain capacity to splash a bit of cold water to the face. Here's hoping it'll do you some good, anyway.

As you're patting yourself down with a clean towel, though, you feel a funny prickle up your spine when a squeak of rusty metal turns the showerhead on. There's the awesome little detail that your fingers aren't anywhere near a faucet, but that ain't your biggest problem. It's not the crappy plumbing, neither, that's making the mess all over the floor.

One of these days, you'd really like the giant red puddle to turn out to be strawberry pancake syrup. That too much to ask for?

You scramble for anything you can get your hands on, settling for a Kleenex box you're praying is made outta iron. Or better yet, that it's a beautiful naked woman behind door number one. Unless that means you're Jack Torrance, in which case, file that under hell freaking no.

You reach for the curtain. This is a bad idea. A really bad idea. Like flunking Horror 101 bad idea.

But you pull it back, and the shower's empty.

Oh, now you're just ticked.

Blood's all disappeared, too. Not that you're complaining (a little disappointed about the beautiful naked woman part), but your head feels like it's bein' pulled six ways from Sunday. You dreaming or something? You gotta be dreaming, right?

You lean against the sink, rubbing your eyes as you heave out a long-ass sigh, one you hadn't realized you'd been holding until now. You're almost sort of hoping to see red when you twist the hot and cold knobs just so you know you're not crazy, but nope. Only water.

Jesus, get it together. Here's what you're gonna do, okay? You're gonna go back to bed, pretend like none of this ever happened, and ho— _lychristfuck is that someone's head twitching in the mirror?_

It's a miracle you don't crack your skull open. Genius that you are, you fumble for the Kleenex box and somehow end up taking down the entire shower curtain with you. Apparently, it's loud enough that Cas comes barreling in. "Dean, what happened?"

You're throwing out every obscenity in the sailor's handbook as you try to get your bearings, wincing at all the bruises you can already feel coming. Fuck, your butt hurts. When you stop seeing stars, though, you realize there's no sign of the jittery bastard. "I dunno. I swear I…I swear I saw somethin'." But oh, on the bright side, you didn't pass out.

"An apparition?"

"Maybe." Makes a hell of a lot more sense than anything else, at least.

"What did it look like?"

You glare at him. "I'm okay. Really." Doesn't get a blink outta him. "I dunno; it happened so quick, I didn't even catch his—" Shit, did he _have_ a face? "All I really remember is like a…a black hood or some kind of mask."

"How would you describe this hood or mask?"

"Mmm, how about creepy as fuck?"

"Dean, this is important."

You try to ignore the shudder in your bones as you swallow down the thought of its breath on your neck. You're gonna need a full body scrub once you get out of this place. "It didn't have any holes. Like one of those they use for electrocuting or hanging people. Or activities with safe words."

You're not sure if Cas' brow puckers up because he doesn't understand the joys of sadomasochism or if this hooded freak actually means something to him, but it's all moot when the bottom of your stomach drops out after you realize the ghosty angling to bad-touch you earlier wasn't wearing any headgear. Which means there's two of these dickbags ruining your beauty sleep.

You're never letting Cas pick the motel again.

You groan as he helps you up. "Really gettin' tired of being on my ass all the time."

Is that…is that a goddamn _giggle_ you hear under his breath? "Care to share with the class, Chuckles?"

"I had an amusing thought, is all."

An amusing—no, don't even go there. Not in the mood to figure him out. "Please just tell me you got salt."

He fetches his duffle bag, pitching you the salt so you can lay some lines. Housekeeping's gonna freak, but you'll take your chances with a cranky maid over those twitchy…whatever…things. Cas sees to it to scrounge up some ammo, loading up what appears to be a twelve-gauge—hold up, since when the hell does the dude have a shotgun?

"Since the dude became human," he says.

"Do you even know how to use one of those things?"

In hindsight, probably not the best idea to insult the guy who's wielding a gun, especially as he's shooting you the deadest stare that ices you right where you're standing. Real slick-like, Cas pumps the shotgun with one hand, two clicks, and— _oof—_ shoves it against your chest.

Suddenly, your throat ain't doing the swallowing thing so good anymore. That's kinda, uh…

Not…nerdy.

Cas cocks a sawed-off as you get into position, and all you can do now is play the waiting game. You're not sure how long it ends up being. Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe. Another quick survey of the bathroom, and you still got nothing.

When it's a no-show after twenty and you see Cas start to nod off, you tell him to get some shut-eye; you'll keep watch. He tries stiffening up and making a weak attempt at a protest, but the big-ass yawn isn't fooling no one.

"No reason both of us need to be manning the post," you say. "And believe me, my heart's beating like it's running on Adderall. No way I'm snoozin' anytime soon."

"You're sure?"

"You're five feet away, man. Something does happen, you'll know it."

He gives you one more look like you've just sent a kid to his room, and he sets the gun down on the nightstand before jumping under the covers. Heh. He's kinda cute when he sleeps.

You know, in a totally drooling-on-the-pillow, _not_ cute way.

You ease into one of the chairs, clutching the M37 till the sun's climbing into the sky. Even then, the sons of bitches don't come back for an encore.

Somehow, you don't feel so relieved.

*****

You don't remember crawling back into bed, but it's after ten the next time you crawl out of it. Head's got a dull ache to it, but the coffee you just got a whiff of might take care of that. And damn, something's smelling like heaven. Someone whip up some grub?

As you shuffle towards the kitchenette area, rubbing your face awake, you spot Cas sitting at the table as he flips through the newspaper. His hair's already slicked and tie's all knotted, and there's a small breakfast spread laid out, complete with what you're betting is freshly-squeezed orange juice. You're halfway expecting to see some hot mom in an apron and a couple kids come bounding in because seriously, did you just step into the Twilight Zone?

Cas glances up at you, pausing before he pokes another forkful. "Did you sleep well?"

You shrug. "Fine, I guess, all things considered." Maybe got a bit of the lingering heebs slash jeebs, but what's new?

Something sticks to the soles of your feet, and you realize salt's still scattered all over the floor. Not sure if it's more or less comforting that it wasn't just a dream. Probably gonna go with less. "They never showed up again, did they?" Cas shakes his head. "Well, coulda decided to go haunt someone else's ass in this hotel. Someone who's doing lines of the other white shit."

He doesn't seem to think much of your theory. Instead, he points towards the cheesy scrambled egg dish. "You're welcome to eat. I made enough for the both of us."

You can't exactly wrap your head around the idea of Cas playing homemaker (goes for a lot of things these days), but your stomach's growling, so you grab a chair and have at it. Coffee's on the strong side, though you can definitely use the brain jolt, and even as you're eyeing the mushrooms and the chives mixed in with the stuff you know you like, the eggs aren't half bad. Leaning towards good, actually. "What's in this? The spice, I mean."

"Paprika."

Huh. Dunno why you never thought of that before. "Since when do you know how to cook?"

He ducks a little, covering what might be a smile with his napkin. "I'm afraid 'cook' may be stretching it. For one, I've learned I can't flip pancakes to save my life. Spatulas are…highly baffling."

Cas scraping off batter from the ceiling—now there's a thought that gets a chuckle outta you.

"The, uh," he chews on a piece of toast, "first time I was human, my method was usually nothing more than combining a bunch of ingredients together to determine what would be palatable. Needless to say, most of my concoctions turned out terribly."

"You have heard of a cookbook, right?"

He nods, swallowing his food. "Unfortunately, not until after Nora invited me over to make dinner"—you raise an eyebrow—"with her friends. Pasta and jam…never trying that again."

You're almost sorry you missed it. "What, you pregnant?"

That earns you a squint. "You do realize it's anatomically impossible for that to happen. Not without the proper fertility serum and incanta—"

Yeah, okay, you're gonna stop him right there.

You reach for the pepper. "So what's with the Beaver Cleaver theme, anyway?"

"What does a television program have to do with this?"

At least he's connecting some of the dots. "It's a little…white picket fence, dontcha think? Two-point-five children with a cat and a dog and all that nuclear family crap?"

"But we don't have two-point-five children."

You almost cough up a chunk of ham. "No, Cas. No, we do not." Too many dots. Too many fucking dots. "I was talking about the whole picture perfect, straight out of a freaking movie part."

"Is that bad?"

"Man, I don't know. Guess I'm just wondering when I'm gonna stumble onto someone's severed ear."

He tilts his head.

"Jeffrey Beaumont? _Blue Velvet?_ "

"Ah."

"Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I came 'cross one of those." Figuratively and literally.

"Or does it unnerve you because…" Cas glances down.

"What?"

He's still looking pretty hesitant. "It would only upset you," he ends up saying instead, and you sense a bristle at the back of your neck. "And…I like this. Eating breakfast with you."

Okay, thanks for sharing?

Feels like something's stuck in your chest when you clear your throat. "Yeah, it's, uh…nice. Whatever." Fine, you'll let it go. S'pose whatever Cas is holding back ain't worth ruining your morning, either. "Still don't know how they got away with naming a kid Beaver in the fifties on TV."

"You're referring to the euphemism for vagina."

The way he delivers it, you could swear he's just talking about the weather. _Lovely vagina we're having._

"Yes, Cas." Not sure if you're starting to miss the blank stare. "How drunk do you have to be to think that up?"

Dude's clearly never heard of a rhetorical question; he's honestly deep in thought about this. "I suspect the correlation has something to do with wood."

And that's orange juice that just shot up your nose.

As you wash up and get ready for the day, you begin to notice things. Nothing big, really. Just shit like the end of the toothpaste tube rolled tight like Cas actually took the time to read the directions. His personal belongings all lined up next to the bathroom sink real precise-like. The journal chock-full of chicken scratch on top of a pile of neatly stacked textbooks. Street maps, article clippings, and photographs taped together and pinned to the wall, possible connections scribbled across in red ink. The polished guns, the—wow, those really are handmade rock salt shells, aren't they?

And when you catch him with his back slumped up against the counter, mug hanging off the one hand, humming to himself as he sips his joe—it's all so… _human._ Well, you mean, he is human, but you've never seen him so chill before ('less you count the time he went all love guru and got a little too acquainted with Mary Jane and friends, which, for the record, you don't). You don't know what the rules are now that he's a mortal sonuvabitch like the rest of you, but it hits you that it ain't just a vessel he's wearing anymore. Like the guy's finally gotten comfortable in his own skin. Hundred percent made of Cas.

Dunno why, but it's weird. Like something don't sit right in your stomach, realizing the things you've never noticed. Or maybe never had the chance to notice. Fuck if you know what's worse, but he's a far cry from sniffing dead dudes and terrifying the witnesses. Guess he's shaping up to be the legit hunter he wanted to be after all. Probably could've really used his help, too, if you hadn't been too busy being a jackass.

Makes you wonder what else you've missed.

You wander back over to pour yourself another cup of coffee, planting a finger on the newspaper Cas was reading earlier. Headline's about some drug bust. "Anything interesting in the dailies?"

"I'm not certain." He sets down his mug, motioning towards the evidence wall. "I've been tracking Bartholomew's movements, but…it's odd. He used the same vessel to infiltrate and join the ranks of the LAPD when he first arrived over a month ago—"

"A whole month? Guy's been here that long already?"

"Perhaps longer. But whatever he's planning, he's given very little indication of it. For all intents and purposes, he appears to be acting completely human. Indulging in the local nightlife…liquor, women…none of it makes sense. It's not his usual modus operandi."

"So he nabbed you back in time for, what? _Cas and Bart's Excellent Adventure?_ "

Doesn't get a reaction outta him; he's got his concentration face on now. "Perhaps he thought it best to assimilate and gain the trust of others."

"And we're just expected to believe that he's playing nice with us hairless apes?"

"Bartholomew's as ruthless as any angel, but he knows when to be civil. If only as a pretense."

"Oh, well, why don't we invite him over for tea, then? We can gossip about Metatron's tiny dick and become bosom buddies."

Cas doesn't even give you the satisfaction of a sigh. "He may be lying low to avoid exposing himself too soon. In any case, for now, he seems strangely content to flesh out this Roy Earle persona. Earle being—"

"Yeah, I got the four-one-one already. Think I read something about him being a vice cop, right?"

He nods at the paper as you pick it up. "A very good one, apparently. This is his fourth raid in the past two weeks."

You skim the text, the grunt under your breath bordering on amused. "Morphine. Army surplus, too. Awesome. If the guns didn't kill you, the addiction will." Slapping the newspaper back down on the table, you look to Cas. "Any common threads between these busts?"

"Aside from most involving morphine, none that I've been able to deduce. It's not just those living in poverty; the wealth and social demographics, they're…varied. Although…"

"What?"

"A few of those indicted were adamant that they had no idea where the narcotics came from."

You don't even try to hide the snort. "Yeah, well, that's druggies for you. They lie."

Cas frowns. "They don't have a history of drug use."

"So you think they were set up?"

He tips his head as if the thought hasn't occurred to him. Come on, Cas, how does that not pop a fucking red flag? "I don't know if all of them could have been setups. Some of those arrested were clearly long-time addicts. But…it's plausible."

"Huh." You scratch at your jaw. "Bart must be after something."

"The morphine? Why morphine?"

You pat him on the back. "Maybe it's not the morphine, Sherlock." Hey, the guy did a damn good job of the leg work; you'll give him credit for that. And your eternal gratitude for not getting dumped with the research. "Bigger question: what's it all got to do with you and me?"

Cas is silent as usual, eyebrows all dark and broody as he finishes off his coffee, and you're about to tell him to drink twenty cups more to help with the, y'know, general constipated-ness. 'Cept he's not the only one having trouble processing things. Between this and last night's…whatever the hell that was…your head's still fucking reeling. Part of you wishes you had the time to gank the bastards haunting this craphole, 'specially since it's gonna bug the fuck out of you not knowing why they were even in your room in the first place, but you got bigger fish to fry.

Suddenly, a thought's clicking. "The names Steven and Lisa Walsh ever come up?"

"No. Why?"

"The vics they cuffed me for? Eyes burned out. How much you wanna bet Bart's behind that, too? Fact, the Walshes might be the easiest lead for the three of us to chase," you put out there, flipping up your collar and reaching for your tie. "You know. Once we, uh. Find Sam."

You try to gauge his expression, see if he's still waving the Team Free Will flag, but you got nothin'. At least it won't be so easy for him to vamoose without his wings anymore. "Speaking of Sam, any ideas?"

He crosses his arms, leaning one-shouldered against the wall. "If we had a lock of his hair or a toenail clipping, we could perform a simple spell."

"Sure, I'll just pull that right out of my heart-shaped locket."

He ain't having none of that with the glower he's throwing you. "There is another way," he says. "But it will be markedly more painful."

Well, if that isn't worthy of an eye roll. "Course, it will."

*****

Blood sigil, it is. It's a spell that doesn't read too difficult on paper, but you're not so crazy about that tapping-into-the-power-of-your-soul shit. You've already had one spirit try to cop a feel. The other downside: rare-as-fuck ingredients. Luckily, Cas has the angel feather and the sands of time covered, but you end up spending half the afternoon following his ass around town just to track down a bottle of dragon tears. What do dragons have to cry over, anyway? They're fucking badass fire-breathing dragons. " _And_ they get the princess," you tell Cas, which somehow segues into him dropping a T.M.I. bomb on you.

"In my true form, I had a tongue that blazed like a sword of flames."

You look up. "'Kay." And blink. "Creepy."

"It had its advantages." He's got that dorky little grin worming its way up. "Especially with the princesses, if you know what I mean." No, Cas, you really don't want to know what—"Princes, too"—nope, you're never sleeping again.

The two of you hop a streetcar over to Chinatown, finally obtaining the goods at some hole-in-the-wall curio shop. 'Bout goddamn time. Not that you're actually looking forward to getting in touch with your inner nuke, but you can only handle the stink of patchouli and ass for so long.

Back at the hotel, you fly through the prep work, grabbing one of Cas' silver knives and lining it up to your forearm. Why's it always gotta be blood, anyway? Why can't it ever be hot fu—dging _fudge,_ that hurts! Seriously. That shit can't be cheap if you're ticking the box for "devil worshipper" on the insurance form.

While you paint your insides on the door, Cas takes the knife from you and slices his own arm clean open. Since he's coming along for the ride, he's gotta be marked with your blood, too. Not that it's anything personal, but ugh, you're gonna need to bathe yourself in like forty gallons of Purell after this is over.

"Kah-nee-lah, poo-goh…" As you start prattling off the Enochian gibberish, Cas grabs the underside of your arm so your blood can do the mingling thing with his. Soon as the sigil glows, you slap a palm against it and brace yourself for warp speed. "Beam us up, Scotty."

The nitro boost's about as much fun as a damn enema, only you got all of the violation and none of the squeaky clean to show for it (don't ask; all you'll say is that Dean Smith had some really fucked up ideas about what should be goin' in and out your body). You don't land topside so much as downside, flat on your stomach with a mouthful of— _pffft,_ oh, God, is that dirty mop hair?

Thankfully, no one's around to ask questions when you and Cas stumble outta what appears to be a janitor's closet (heh, lotta good memories in those). After a brief scan of whatever random backass hallway you teleported to, though, you realize there's no sign of your brother. "Aren't we s'posed to see him right away? Thought it took you straight to 'im. Least that's how our granddad—"

Before you can finish that sentence, some dude about knocks you over on his way out of the men's room. He tips his hat with a "Pardon me," and for a split second, you swear he looks familiar. But maybe it's just one of those weird déjà vu things, and afterwards, you don't think nothin' of it. Apparently, his name's Kelso if the other guy signaling to him's anything to go by, and that ain't ringing any bells.

"Sam should be here," Cas says, roping you back in. "He may just be in another part of the building. The accuracy of the spell is diminished when transport of more than the original caster is required."

"Oh, well, gee, Cas, thanks for warning me. Don't you think you coulda told me this before I nuked my soul?"

"Instead of bickering," his eyes level with yours, and his voice's got that edge to it like you're treading on thin ice, "perhaps our time would be better spent searching the premises for Sam."

You bite into your bottom lip as he heads into the restroom, making throttle-y hand motions when his back's turned to you. God… _dammit,_ you hate when he does that to you. Whatever "that" is. But you definitely hate it.

Probably not doing you any favors to stroll out into public looking like you've just sacrificed a virgin, so you get yourself cleaned up before you check out the main area, which happens to be some kinda dive bar. Sweet. Just in time for happy hour.

There's only a handful of patrons nursing their drinks and sucking on cancer sticks, most riding the stool while the jukebox's kicking a real bluesy tune. No one remotely resembling Gigantor. Well, maybe the dude hunched over and yakking with the bartender might straighten out to be six foot four, but he's all clean cut with the hair greased into a serious comb over, and not even you have enough of a death wish to take a scissors to—

No way. No fucking way. You finally get a glimpse of his face, and it _is_ Sam. Just, y'know. Without the Harlequin romance shag.

You walk over to him, a bounce in your step 'cause oh, man, the ammo alone he's given you. "Nice. _Hair._ "

Startled, he blinks a couple'a times before it seems to register. "Dean? Wait, what happened to you?"

"The shiner? Got a little face work done, courtesy of that mook Bart sent us as a welcoming gift."

"Ouch. I'm guessing I should've seen the other guy." Then he spots the ex-angel behind you. "Cas?"

"Hello, Sam."

"Oh, my God, I thought you were…" Sam goes in for the big squeeze, and hey, let's not get too carried away with the broment, guys. "So you're really all right, Cas?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Didja cry?" After Sam narrows his eyes at you, you make a vague gesture at the Jell-O mold on his head. "Pretty sure Fabio's weeping somewhere."

Ah, there's the good ol' nostril flare. "Unfortunately, people tend to avoid you if you don't fit the societal norm. And I kind of needed to, you know, talk to people if I was ever going to find you."

"Parents probably don't appreciate the Wolf Man running around and frightening small children, neither."

"Glad to see you, too, Dean." Someone's getting snippy. "By the way, what the hell happened back there with the portal?"

"Hell if I know. Didn't you follow in right after me?"

"Dude, I tried, but I ended up having to do the spell all over again. Which was a lot more difficult considering you didn't tell me the drop point."

"Thought I gave you the address?"

"Nope. All I had was a nebulous '1947 L.A.' to go by. Otherwise, even your browser history was clean. So, uh, yeah. Thanks for that."

You dig through your pockets for Cas' note with the street names, but except for some lint, they're empty. Guess you must've lost it. "Well, we're all one happy family again, so no use getting in a twist over it now. How'd you wind up here, anyway?"

"Caught a trail on the guy that booked you."

"Detective Phelps?"

He nods. "Heard his partner, Galloway, likes to drink on the job."

Your heart nearly craps out on you. "Shit, he here?"

"No. Just missed him."

"Oh, thank God." 'Cause _that_ wouldn't have been awkward.

Sam pats you on the shoulder. "Hey, I'm gonna hit the head. Be right back."

As he moseys on back, you sidle up to the bar next to Cas, leaning on your elbows. "So, we've located Sam. This the part where you make like lightning and bolt?"

He paws at his neck, his shoes a hell of a lot more interesting than they were two seconds ago, but fuck if you're gonna take silence for an answer.

"Listen, man, I'm not gonna beat a dead horse. You already know how I feel about it. But…could really use you around. Be our third wheel. Greater stability, remember?" There you go; that wrangles a smile from him. "'Sides, I kinda missed…I mean, we…" Christ, you gettin' mushy, Winchester? "Whatever. You stayin' or not?"

You stiffen up, roll your shoulders because no, you are not having a _moment._

Funny how the lump in your throat doesn't get the memo, though.

"You know I'll be here as long as you need me, Dean," he eventually says, and it comes out a little rougher than you'd like to admit when you force a chuckle.

"Make it sound like there's a time we don't need you."

It's a sorry excuse for a joke, if it's even meant to be one. Cas certainly don't seem to think it's worth a dime, keeping his eyes down as he slides a hand across the bar top and—are those his fingers brushing your arm? Jesus, are they _lingering?_ Granted, Cas being a whole 'nother nine levels of weird is called commonplace, but between this and how he acted back at the hotel, you can't shake the feeling that something's…fuck, _something's_ different.

You need a damn drink; that's what you need.

'Cause when he wanders off, no way in hell did you just ask yourself if that ain't such a bad thing after all.


	6. The Boys Are Back in Town

As you head back out to the street, Sam whistles when he sees that beauty of a two-door convertible coupe you're cruisin' in. His reaction to turning your blast to the past into an extended stay, however: not so enthusiastic. "What happened to popping in and out 'real quick'?"

"Got ourselves some unfinished business, Sammy." You twirl the keys around a finger after Cas pitches 'em to you. "We didn't just bounce back to save his ass; this is an actual case."  
  
"Yes," Cas says, not even bothering to do a full eye roll, "excellent job of nearly getting _your_ ass incarcerated in an attempt to rescue mine."

Sam's brow shoots up, and you throw him a look that he's better off not asking. As for Cas, you're about to laser your eyes through his skull. "It's the thought that counts, all right? And if you don't mind, I'd like to figure out why the hell Bart's weaseling into the goddamn LAPD before we're all strapping on wings and singing 'Onward Christian Soldier.'"

"Okay, so…" Sam crosses his arms. "Where do we start?"

You hop into the driver side and open the passenger door. "Get in, losers. We're going shopping."

Sam gawks at you like he's finally clued in that you've been lying about Cas putting all the weird shit in his Netflix queue.

Drive. Just fucking drive.

Not that you're really all that keen on hitting the nearest menswear place before it closes, and dear God, someone please stab your throat if you ever say "going" and "shopping" in the same sentence again, but seems like you got no real choice. You and Cas only have the one pair of threads—in fact, you had to borrow his spare shirt this morning because yours is currently a crime scene—and Sam doesn't have any sorta professional getup, period. You don't know the run time on this angel noir Bart's directing, so might as well plan on settling in and stocking up to your two-suit standard.

And you're only sayin' this because Cas is soliciting your opinion—he's got on that dumb frown in the mirror like he's thinking too hard again, so you s'pose you shouldn't be a jerk about it—but he kinda…y'know. Fills out a three-piece pretty, uh…nice, you guess. If you were the type to give a crap about that sorta thing. Which you definitely fucking aren't. Never could see anything underneath that trench coat of his, anyway. Not 'cause you've ever taken a freaking gander at the dude, 'kay? Because it's, you know. All big and floppy and…trench coat-y.

And no, it doesn't fucking count when the tailor asks Cas how it sits in the crotch. People say shit like that in public, course, it's gonna get your attention. Like some Jedi mind voodoo or—oh, God, Sam's looking at you.

Turn and cough, dammit; _turn and cough._

The red cools off your ears after the three of you make your way over to this place called Robert's Diner to grab a bite and discuss logistics. You're in the final countdown from cranky to downright surly when it's been hours since you've had any real grub in your stomach, so there damn well better be a bacon cheeseburger with your name on it.

As you slip into the corner booth away from the blue plate crowd, a waitress that's all sunshine and smiles in her bright yellow uniform comes over to greet you. "What can I get you boys?"

Then again, with that dark hair all done up in curls, a pair of gorgeous green eyes lighting up those rosy cheeks, maybe food's not the only thing that'll cure you of a sour mood. "Well, I dunno…" you lean forward and glance at her name tag, "…Sarah. Maybe you, uh, tell us what's good here?"

You try flashing your whites, but she's too busy giving Sam a double-take. Guess you really can't blame her. Now that he ain't a walking billboard for some girly hair products ad anymore, those goofy ears poking out of either side of his head throw you off, too. "Today's special is a hot open-faced turkey sandwich with all the fixings. We also make a mean chowder." She taps a pen against her notepad. "And I highly recommend sticking around for a slice of our famous pecan pie."

"You just said the magic words, sweetheart." You lay a wink on her. "Hell, yeah, I'd love to taste your pie."

All you get in return, though, is a scrunched-up brow and a funny kinda blink. That didn't land as gracefully as you'd hoped. The hell? You can't be that off your mark, can you?

Sam clears his throat as he stares a hard line in your direction, and all right, all right; you get the point. You end up half-assing a grin, telling her to go heavy on the bacon while Cas asks her to nix the pig.

"And what can we whip up for you?" Her eyes are back on Sam again, twisting a piece of hair around her pen. That's great. Awesome.

"Um, just a house salad, please." Of fucking course. "Maybe with some grilled chicken? I mean, if it's not too much trouble."

She gently thumps his shoulder with the menus. "No trouble at all, hon."

 _If it's not too much trouble,_ you mouth at him after she leaves. Ugh, puke.

"You're pouting," Cas says.

"What?" You start chugging water. "No, I'm not."

Guy's got one intense squint going on with that packet of coffee creamer. Gonna hurt himself if he's not careful. "I'm afraid she's interested in Sam, not you."

"Is she? Didn't notice." Your brother scoring where you struck out? Yeah, that's rich. The black eye's probably just scaring her off. "Whatever, we got more important things to talk about."

You bring Sam up to speed on all you know about Angel Cop. 'Cept for a handful of morphine junkies and a not-so-happily married couple who's literally seen the light, you got next to jack, but hey, you'll take honest-to-goodness police work over cramming your nose into a dusty old tome any day.

"So what's the plan?" Sam asks. "Chase down these leads to find out where Bart is and get him to talk?"

"No," Cas chimes in with a mouthful of beef. Attractive. "We should stay off the grill as long as we can."

"Um…don't you mean off the grid?"

"Given its heat-producing capability, wouldn't a grill be considered far more treacherous? I know from experience that treading on hot coals isn't the least bit pleasant."

Sam cocks an eyebrow at you. What, like you're an expert on nerdy angel speak?

"In any case," Cas continues, "Bartholomew has been here for quite some time, and his circle of influence may be more widespread than we suspect. My brother is brash, but he has a certain charisma that allows him power in numbers. We'll need to be adequately prepared if we hope to confront him and succeed."

As he reaches for another french fry, you spot a glob of ketchup at the corner of his lips. "You, uh, got something on your…"

He paws a napkin at his cheek. "Where?"

"No, not…your _other_ left."

Even after you've practically resorted to doing charades, he's still not getting it. "Clearly, your directions aren't helping." He huffs through his nose. "Will you please just wipe it off for me?"

Your only response to that is grabbing the shiny-ass napkin dispenser and clunking it down in front of him.

"Cas…" You shake your head as his face puckers at his reflection. Friggin' dork. "Has a point, though. Better if we don't generate too much heat and ping his radar. Our best bet's probably sussing out who's roasting s'mores outta eyeballs and see if we can't get them to drop a dime on Bart's game plan."

After you top it off with pie, Sarah the waitress stops by with the check, but she don't seem so eager to hand it over just yet. If she wasn't makin' eyes at Sam before, she sure ain't being subtle about it now. Biting her lip and everything, jeez. "I hope this doesn't sound completely wacky, but…do we know each other? Because golly, you seem familiar."

Sam glances at you first. Hell if you know. Though now that you think about it, maybe she does look…nah. You're probably just confusing her for someone else.

"No, I…don't think so? Sorry," he says. "I'm…we're not from around here. On a business trip, actually."

"Oh." Way to break the girl's heart, Sammy. "You're right; it's—"

"No, it's not—"

"Silly," they end up saying in swear-to-God perfect unison, exchanging those cutesy sorta laughs that nearly put you in a diabetic coma.

"Well…" she jots down a note on the check, sliding it towards him, "…if you find the time to mix a little pleasure with your business, you should give me a holler. I might be able to show you a thing or two about this city."

"I'll, uh…thanks. Keep that in mind."

Christ, Sam, "thanks"? Seriously?

Don't seem to faze her none, though, that smile of hers outshining her pearls. "Take care of yourself."

Damn. Chick really does have the hots for your baby brother. Can't even be mad about it when she's giving him a free pass. Not that you were jealous in the first place.

You poke at him after she's out of earshot. "Dude. Ask her out already."  
  
"What? Why?"

"Because she totally wants to jump your bones; that's why!"

"Unlike you, Dean"—and there it is: the bitchiest bitchface to outbitch all bitchfaces—"I don't use my dick as a divining rod."

"Hey, my dick knows divine when it sees it."

Sam immediately squeezes his eyes shut. "Yeah…let's not…go there. Like, ever."

He started it.

"Anyway, forget dating someone. Isn't just being in 19-frickin'-47 bad enough? The slightest difference could alter the entire course of history."

"Yeah, a man might wake up and decide on strawberry syrup instead of maple."

"I'm serious." Watch out; the bitchface is cranked up to eleven now. "I mean, I understand you didn't exactly have a choice when you accidentally hitched a ride with Chronos, but this…we could be messing with things we don't even know we're messing with."

"And what about when we went back to save Mom and Dad, huh? Twice? No matter which way we tried to _Butterfly Effect_ the fucking situation, we still got the same stinking pile of Winchester family bullcrap. That yellow-eyed dickbag still turned you into Lucifer's pet; Mom still…" You feel a lump pushing at the back of your throat, and fuck, you're not gonna do this here. "Man, I'm not stupid, okay? I know we're cursed. But maybe us being here? Is the reason there's still a future. Because in the middle of all this crazy, I gotta believe we can do something right."

Sam seems to've eased up a bit, his eyes going soft on you. "I'm with you on kicking some angel ass. I am. I just…hope there isn't a price tag attached, you know?" He throws down his napkin, scooting out of the booth. "But whatever the time traveling rules are, I'm pretty sure it isn't kosher to go around hooking up with random women." Doesn't stop him from leaving extra for the tip, though.

"Yeah, well," you toss him a smirk, patting him on the back, "just don't become your own grandpa."

"Ew, Dean."

You peer over at Cas, who's surprisingly kept his lid shut through the whole conversation. "What's up with you? I remember when you used to be the one preaching all this destiny shit."

There's a shrug of his shoulders as he sighs. "Fate, free will…I don't know. One can only stomach so many renditions of _Romeo and Juliet_ before growing disenchanted with the concept. Yet, when you study the bigger picture, human nature is just that predictable, isn't it? I'm not so sure fate and free will aren't one and the same."

Guess that's one school of thought. A really depressing one, Jesus; when'd Shakespeare come into this?

He slips on the fedora he insisted on buying earlier 'cause he liked the fancy blue feather. "And you, Dean Winchester…"

"What?"

You catch the small grin peeking out from under that brim. "You're as stubborn as ever."

"I like to think it's one of my more endearing qualities."

"Second only to your perky nipples; yes, I know."

Well, you ain't denying—wait, what?

"You once—facetiously, I presume—suggested that was the reason I pulled you out of hell. I…" His eyes drift down to the side. "Thought you would find it amusing if I made a reference."

Did you? Probably. Sounds like you. Don't remember Cas being around for that, though. "Right, no, just…trying to figure out when you got an actual sense of humor."

"When I pulled you out of hell," he repeats.

You're convinced that by itself is one big cosmic joke, and you're still waiting on the punch line.

Even so, you can't help chuckling to yourself, the bell dinging as you exit the diner. The Cas back then wouldn't know a wisecrack if it literally cracked him on the head, but some halo rescuing a sap who didn't give a rat's ass about God (and for the record, still doesn't)?

Shit, talk about a _Divine Comedy._

*****

Don't get you wrong; the 1940s are awesome. Classy cars, classy music, classy digs, classy dames—classy everything. But when you're light years away from Wi-Fi, it turns casework into a real fucking drag. Like phone books? Who the hell even uses those?

"You know W comes after V, right?"

"One more word, Sam, and I'll cram that W right up your ass."

You might've started humming the ABCs, though.

Thankfully, there's only one listing under a Steven and Lisa Walsh. After you drive back to the motel your brother's crashing at so he can grab his own wheels—a Buick Special with a sleek silver coat…a '39, maybe?—the three of you agree to split up to cover more ground. "Sam, you go sweet talk the neighbors and see what you can nose outta them. Since they got a tab on our faces, think it's better you than us if the fuzz gets wind of anyone snooping around. Me and Cas will do a sweep of the Walshes' place. Meet back here in one, one and a half?"

Sam nods, firing up the engine, and man, does she purr. "Got it. And don't lose my set of lock picks. You still haven't bought me new ones from the last time."

Hey, not your fault Junior Detective confiscated all your shit. "Christmas. I'm good for it."

"Right. Just be careful, okay? With both the lock picks and, you know. If angels are involved in this thing, someone else is gonna be sniffing around."

"Sure, Sam. Cas 'n' I'll hold hands, and we'll even look both ways before we cross the street. Won't we, Cas?"

Sam's mumbling something under his breath as he throws the Buick into gear. Probably better you don't hear it. "See you guys later."

Cas says he's familiar with the part of town your vics are from, so you let him fly pilot. You gotta do a little picking at his brain, anyway. "So…there's something that's been bugging me."

He raises his eyebrows. "All right."

"If you're human, how'd you hear me in jail?"

"I…" He fumbles for the shift and misses the clutch, scrambling to stop the car before the light as you nearly bash your head in on the dash.

"Dammit, what the—"

"I—I apologize, Dean. My hand slipped."

"Same time as your foot?"

He ignores that (and the driver next to you flipping the bird), gripping at ten and two before speeding up again. Well, you don't need a bathroom anymore. "I don't know why I heard you. Perhaps Bartholomew failed to drain me of all of my grace. Not enough that I could do anything powerful with it, but enough that I still have my 'ears' on."

Hmph. Yeah, that's not odd. "Doesn't strike me as the sorta guy who'd be sloppy."

"It is unusual." He waits a beat as you glare at him out of the corner of your eye. "While extremely rare, there are, as you may recall, certain individuals who can perceive the true voice of an angel. And Anna was able to understand our brethren without her grace. I haven't heard of this particular phenomenon happening before, but perhaps it's not much of a stretch that a heavenly host turned mortal would still hear human prayer."

"I guess that makes sense." You roll your tongue over in your mouth as you get to thinkin' 'bout that cruddy old gas station just outside of Pontiac, Illinois. How your ears almost bled out when the dude went all _Mr. Castiel's Opus_ on you. Wonder how angels even introduce themselves to you wingless folk? _Hi, my name is Cas, and I like cheeseburgers, smiting, and staring the crap outta you._

God, that was a long time ago.

"Seems so simple back then. Before you came crashing in." Literally. "You really did a number on my head, you know that?"

"I'm sorry," he says. Like he actually means it.

Like there's more truth to what you said than you actually mean to slip.

"Naw," you brush it off, telling yourself you're just readjusting in your seat to work out a leg cramp, "you made things interesting. Though I gotta say, you guys suck at parties."

"You've never been to one of Gabriel's gatherings."

"Miracles do happen. Eight-six-three, that the one?"

You park a few blocks away, heading through the back alley and sneaking around to the rear entrance to pick the lock. Cas peeps over your shoulder like his normal awkward self instead of being, y'know, _helpful_ and keeping watch, but the pins get into position like the planets are aligning in just a few seconds flat, and you're in, baby.

First thing you spot is the…Oxydol?…on the shelf, all boxed up in some retro blue and yellow print. Says it's the number one detergent brand in America, but "Oxydol" sounds more like whatever Billy Mays was snorting. There's a washing machine over in the corner—at least it sorta looks like one, but, y'know, ancient—got one of those wringer mechanisms attached to it. That had to be a pain in the ass to deal with.  
  
Next to the laundry room is the kitchen. It's what you'd expect straight out of an old school sitcom: the kitschy floral patterns; the cupboards and appliances decked out in that sterile all-white color that frankly would be giving you the creeps if it weren't for the mess left out on the stove. Cas does his part by leaning over and inspecting the half of lemon on the counter. Yeah, Cas, 'cause that lemon looks awfully suspicious.

It is weird, though, how the garlic's chopped up and the chicken's so thawed out, it's breeding flies, but nothing's cooked. Whoever ganked her must've caught her by surprise in the middle of getting dinner ready.

Then you notice the empty hook in the lineup of pots and pans above the stove. Or maybe _she_ caught the guy by surprise.

You peer around the corner, pulling back your blazer to reach for your angel blade. Once you see the coast is clear, you signal to Cas that you're gonna search the rest of the house, keeping your eyes peeled for some kinda study or den that Phelps said was where they found the body. You don't know the standard cost of living back then, but seems like a nice, roomy enough place. 'Specially with the chandelier and what's gotta be a pricey set of china in the dining area, they couldn't have been doing too bad for themselves.

Further down the hall, you finally locate the study—yep, there's the frying pan on the floor—and holy shit, it's trashed. The bookcases are totally ransacked, all the drawers're ripped out with papers and other junk tossed every which way, and as you're checking out the bloodstains on the Persian rug, you— _sonuva—_ nearly twist your fucking ankle on a piece of broken statue. Looks like a…angel? The mantelpiece clock's smashed up, too, with the time stopped at 4:20. Lines up with what Phelps was telling you.

"Heh, dude." You show Cas the clock when he steps in. "Four-twenty."

He thinks for a sec, then says, "I don't understand what's so humorous about Hitler's birthday."

Wow. Guess you can't win 'em all.

"So she must've snuck up on him while he was rummaging around for…whatever. She tries to knock him out, they have their scuffle, and it's lights out for Mrs. Cleaver." You flip through some of the manila folders on the desk. Just a bunch of tax documents. Snooze. "The detective who grilled me back at the station mentioned the wife was having a little something on the side, but the fact that she even tried getting the jump on this guy probably means she didn't recognize him. You think?"

"They may have been masked, or she may have only seen them from behind before attacking."

"Hmm, fair point. So guess we can't completely rule the secret boyfriend out."

On the south wall, you spy one of those big-ticket paintings with its frame slightly crooked. Well, well, what do you have here? A busted-open safe, apparently. Except…it's exactly like Phelps was saying: nothing's been jacked. Things may be shuffled around a bit, but the stacks of cash, the gold, and the big honking rings are still sittin' pretty. Even the bearer bonds, too—that alone leads you to suspect that maybe Walsh was into some shady stuff himself.

You jerk your head towards Cas. "You hear any whispers 'bout _Angel's Eleven_ on the dial?"

"No. Bartholomew made sure I wouldn't be able to tap in."

"So you can tap me but not angel radio?"

"I'm…not sure how it works."

Wouldn't expect any less. You rub your eyes, your other hand at your hip. "Okay, if you're gonna throw the cops a red herring with a fake robbery, wouldn't you at least pinch something? Why go to the trouble of cracking a heavy-duty safe and not lift any of the goods? I mean, this is easy money right here." You didn't see any dust spots near the china, neither. "What the hell're they really after?"

"We are talking about angels," Cas reminds you. "Perhaps something that holds no particular significance for humans, but an artifact, a parchment…it's likely that there are a few heavenly weapons still scattered across the earth."

"Oh, right, 'cause Balthazar thought it'd be a good idea to dole them out like party favors." You hope they played Celine Dion at his funeral. "Well, that's just…awesome. So basically we got no freakin' clue what this could be."

There's still how the boy toy fits into all of this, though; possible you'll dig up something useful by poking around on the second floor. You start for the master bedroom, but not before pocketing a chunk of the dough. Nothing too greedy, all right? Just enough to keep you afloat for a while. It's not exactly like you got the luxury of using a bogus MasterCard at the moment. And far as you're concerned, the dead ain't missing anything.

Cas beats you upstairs, distracted by the antique music box he's found on the dresser. "The craftsmanship is…exquisite. What is it?"

Breaking news: Cas doesn't understand human shit. "Here, you wind it up," you tell him, opening it up. "It plays you a tune, and the ballerina'll dance as many times as you crank it."

"Oh." He sets it back down as it tinkles. "She seems sad."

The handiwork is sorta crude, but, uh, yeah, that's definitely a smile painted on her face. "How do you figure?"

"She must tire of it. Doing the same thing day after day."

"Maybe she just really loves dancing, Cas."

"Or…" he sighs, "…maybe she's trapped in an eternal loop, powerless to set herself free."

Mental note: never buy him a music box. "Jesus, Eeyore, it's a knickknack. Not like it has feelings. And even if she did, I'm sure she's perfectly happy in her box with the shoes and the tutu and…am I seriously arguing with you about this?"

Meanwhile in the real world, you're scanning the female crap littered all over the vanity, but nothing remotely interesting pops out at you. What might be interesting, though, is that top dresser drawer—if a woman's hiding anything, you can bet it's gonna be in the last place any respectable man would look.

Luckily, you're not respectable.

You let out a short whistle as you root around in the old lady's unmentionables; inventory's certainly more colorful than you anticipated. Almost wish you had been her side dish. So much for baby boomers being total prudes.

You glance over at Cas, who's moved on from the music box to one of those old-fashioned rotary phones. Speaking of prudes. "Whaddya think, Cas?" You pull out a pair of lacy pink panties. "Just my size?"

The guy's evidently more fascinated with sticking his fingers in the damn dial, and…for chrissakes. Now the dumbass is getting himself tangled up in the cord.

You roll your eyes as you chuck the panties back into the drawer. Never could get the lowbrow humor to take, anyway, not when it whizzes past his head by like, a fucking mile.

"You prefer satin," he eventually says, once he isn't on the verge of accidentally hanging himself anymore. And, well, you do consider yourself a man of finer—

Hold on, _what?_

You've never made so much as a peep to him about Rhonda Hurley. Not him; not anyone. Hell, you only admitted it to yourself because your clone probably woulda blown your brains out otherwise. It's got you scratching at your hairs, heart's even skipped a few beats trying to remember if you had gotten a little too up close and personal with Mr. Daniel's one night in present company—and oh, God, was _Sam_ there?

Or maybe…shit. Maybe you are having a hard time keeping up with him. He's always been deadpan as fuck; never can tell when he's being serious and when he's sassing you off. He's probably hung around you long enough that it's sunk in to use to his advantage.

Yeah, he's just…he's jerking you around. Like you were jerking him around. Friendly banter. That's all. That's gotta be it, right?

Whatever it is, that conversation officially didn't happen.

You get back to the task at hand, feeling around the bottom of the drawer. C'mon, there's gotta be—ha, there it is. A tiny notch in the wood that slides open to reveal a hidden compartment. And in said compartment: one suspiciously unmarked envelope.

Jackpot.

The letter folded inside ain't exactly _Penthouse Forum_ material, but hey, you're just happy you're not walking away empty-handed. Nothing distinct about the stationery—not even a letterhead or a frilly border—'cept…there is a bright red lipstick print where the sender's scribbled a heart down at the bottom. No name. S'pose that would've been too much to hope for.

You're about to show it to Cas, but he's too busy taking a giant whiff of the underwear drawer. Great, you're back to the disturbing nose thing again. "The fuck you doin', Cas?"

Hoover Attachment ignores you, sniffing at the letter. "It's sprinkled with perfume. Is that customary?"

Okay, good catch. Really good catch, actually. "Not if a dude's mailing it," you admit, eyeballing the penmanship. Neat, but everyone probably had better handwriting before computers were a thing. That lip autograph, though—that's gotta mean something. "So maybe we got ourselves a secret girlfriend instead? Not a whole lot to go on, but hopefully Sam's dug up some dirt that lines up with this theory."

The two of you hit the road, lightly slapping the letter against Cas' arm before stuffing it into your jacket. "Bet Mrs. Walsh thought her lady friend was a real angel, huh?"

"Yes, she may very well be; isn't that the reason we're—" He pauses mid-thought, and there you go; now the light bulb's switching on. "Oh, you were…referring to the term of endearment. While simultaneously insinuating that an actual angel may be possessing her. That's very clever, Dean."

"Puns, Cas. They're called puns."

It needs a bit of digesting, but the sides of his mouth finally perk up. "I like puns."

Course, he does.

It's a damn goofy grin he's wearing as he slides into the driver's seat next to you. It's a bit bizarre, actually, when he fishes out a pair of brass aviators and turns up the oldies. Like it's just something he does these days, and yeah, your reflexes should be kicking in and asking a lot more questions than you are right now.

It's a beautiful night out, though, the sun hanging just low enough for that evening breeze to start driftin' through—and hell, not giving a fuck is a nice change after all the muck you've slogged through together.

You eye 'im as he hums along with some Billie Holiday, tone deaf as all get-out, but you're finding you don't really mind, tapping your fingers on the side of the car.

It's, uh…it's…

Yeah.

Nice.


	7. In Case Anybody's Wondering, Cas Still Sucks at Pop Culture References

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a plot-centric chapter with some heavy interaction between the brothers (which I adore, so expect to see more of it on occasion), so Dean and Cas kind of took the backseat on this one except for the end, but I promise their development will start to take off over the next few chapters. 
> 
> As I noted in the tags, Dean will be struggling to come to terms with his sexuality in this fic. If there's something I've missed and need to tag/warn people for, please let me know; I'm a bit clueless on that stuff, unfortunately, but am certainly receptive to feedback. :)

Soon as you meet up with Sam again, you can already tell by the look on his face that you're not gonna like what he's about to spill. "Yeah, so, whatever's going on," he begins, crossing his arms as he leans against the Buick, "we're not just dealing with angels anymore."

"Meaning?"

"According to the neighbors, Steven Walsh was always a bit on the eccentric side. An avid collector who spent more time polishing his antiques than anything else, if you catch my drift." Explains why the old ball and chain was sticking her fingers in someone else's chip dip. "A few days ago, though, he up and disappeared without warning. Wife even put in a missing persons report."

"And? Obviously, he came back if he's rotting on a metal slab down at the coroner's."

"Well, the morning after he returned, his next-door neighbor found some of his mail in his mailbox. When he went over to drop it off, apparently, he couldn't stomach more than a two-second conversation with Walsh because he, and I quote, 'stank to high heaven like a bad carton of hen fruit.'"

"Rotten eggs?" Christ. Exactly what you need. "Demons are in on this thing, too? So basically we got ourselves another supernatural dick fight; is that it?" The question's more for Cas, but he shakes his head like he knows about as much as you do. "What about stuff of the non-smiting variety? Turns out Walsh had a bunch of bearer bonds in his safe."

Sam does that little think-y kinda frown. "Money laundering?"

"You tell me. You figure out if he had any link to the drug busts?"

"If he was involved in anything under the table, I didn't get that sense, but from what people were saying, it sounds like he had some pretty important connections in this city. The guy's on the board of directors for the SoCal historical society."

"Historical society?" You snort at the thought. "More like hysterically _lame_ society."

"Yeah, like I've never seen you marathoning the History channel while waiting for a case to pop up."

"Yeah, well…shut up." Not your fault John Dillinger was a total badass. "Okay, dude's got his nerd antique club; maybe that follows Cas' idea that they're looking for some kinda artifact. And if both angels and demons want a piece of this thing, that means we gotta get our hands on it before—" Aw, fuck. This better not be what you think it is. "If this is a freakin' race for the doodle rock again, I'm gonna hurt someone just on principle."

"Doubtful," Cas says. "We aren't anywhere near any of the tablets' locations, and the first of the next generation of prophets won't be born for another several years."

"Good, 'cause if I have to babysit another one of those…"

But you can't bring yourself to finish your sentence, hitting a snag in your throat and a twist in your gut. Yeah, jackass. You mean like Kevin? The one who ended up dead on your watch?

The back of your jaw screws tight as you try to choke the words back down. "So, uh. Lisa Walsh. Anything through the grapevine 'bout who she was bumping uglies with?"

Thankfully, Sam takes the hint to move on. "No one mentioned anything about another guy sneaking around, but—"

"Let me guess: a chick?"

He blinks funny at you, narrowing his eyes. "Yeah, actually. How'd you know?"

You show him the love letter you nabbed, pointing out the big-ass lip smack. "Still short on a name, though."

"Not sure if they're the same person, but maybe I can help with that. It wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that this girl started coming by on a regular basis. Her name's Charlene Packman; lives with her older brother and his wife on the other side of town. Family's pretty religious, too, from what I hear."

"We talkin' dick angel levels of religious?"

"Only one way to find out."

Time to get things rolling, then. "All right, me 'n' you will go check out her story. Cas, why don't you hit up the morgue, see if you can glean anything extra from the autopsy. And if you get back to the motel before us, book a second room. Preferably one that's lighter on the snuff porn."

"And I trust you'll be able to conduct your investigation without landing yourself in prison. Again."

For a guy who doesn't open his trap much, he's got an awful lotta mouth on him.

You're sure you're at least partly responsible for that.

Sam, you chalk up as hopeless, though, standing there like some friggin' amused child as Cas drives off. You nod at him as you head for the Buick. "What's got you so tickled?"

"Nothing, just…" He shrugs, hands shoved in pockets. Yeah, like that ain't the smile of a cat who swallowed the canary. "Glad to see things are back to normal; that's all."

"What'd I tell you, Doubting Thomas?"

Sam slams his door shut as you duck inside, but he doesn't turn the key over just yet.

Oh, God, he wants to talk.

"Listen, Dean, I want you to know that it had nothing to do with wanting to save Cas. Because believe me, I did."

"Oh, yeah. That was real obvious."

He throws a hand up in the air. Like _he's_ the exasperated one. "I just…you've kinda been all over the place, man. I mean, some of the ideas you've been coming up with to find Cas have been…"

You turn around and prop up an elbow. Oh, this, you gotta hear.

"Well, you have to admit that some of them were pretty frickin' insane, even for us, and I honestly didn't know if this 'Key of Time' business was legit or if you were having another one of your…" He kneads at his forehead, huffing out a sigh. "I didn't want to see you go through…you know…again."

You don't know what's worse: the stupid doe-eyed gaze Sam's giving you with the nose twitch or the fact that you can't even think of a lame comeback. You settle for a staring match with the glove compartment instead.

"But, you know, forget it." He finally revs up the damn engine, and you've never heard anything so beautiful. "All that matters is that Cas is okay, and you seem to be doing better. You're not having any more of those migraines, are you?"

You're still shaky on last night's roller coaster of events, but you've been fine since you woke up this morning. Not feeling like someone's stuck your head in a washing machine? Consider that a win. "I'm good."

"Great, so…you're back to your usual grumpy, belligerent self." You'll take that as a compliment. "That, I can handle."

"That mean you're not holding Baby hostage anymore?"

"She's all yours."

"Let's just hope she'll forgive me. She's gonna smell Cadillac all over me."

It's after dark when you arrive at the Packmans' home, a rambler with the lights still on. You flash your badge to the cute redhead that answers the door. "Special Agent Murtaugh; this is my partner, Special Agent Riggs. Is Charlene around?"

Her cheeks turn whiter than your shorts. Must be her. "Why? Am I in trouble? This isn't about the dead bird in the apple pie, is it? Because I can explain—"

"No, we…" Sam squints at you before turning back to Charlene. "Just have a few questions. Not about the pie." You have questions about the pie. "Mind if we come in?"

Digs are smaller than the Walshes', but cozy enough, you guess, much as you can make out in the dim lamplight. No TV, just a bunch of faded furniture arranged around a dinky fireplace with some generic landscape art. The forties got a lot of stuff right about style, but you'll never understand all the frumpy patterns. Like some dog got busy in grandma's garden and puked up flowers everywhere. You know. For normal people who actually had grandmas.

And for a second, you imagine that this might be the sorta place your dad grew up in, plopped down right in front of one of those old Zenith floor model radios. Back when things that go bump in the night were still only stories. When your dad still had his old man.

Wonder how different your life would've been if Henry had made it back. S'pose you would've had to _learn_ something, bein' legacies and all. Now that just gives you the willies.

Before you settle down on the sofa, you spy the phone over in the corner and roll your eyes. Hope Cas can find his way around a corpse better. Not that you don't feel the quirk in your lips at the thought of it.

Guess the people you do still have in your life ain't so bad.

"May I get you anything, Agents?" Charlene offers a wobbly smile. "I can brew you a fresh pot. That is, if I can manage to do it without boiling the coffee again. My brother bought this new percolator, and—"

"We're good, thanks," you assure her as you finish your quick scan of the room, spotting the lipstick stain on the rumpled napkin next to a jigger of whiskey. "We just want to know if you're familiar with a Steven or Lisa Walsh."

"The…guy that took over J.M. Gold's? I've seen him a couple times my sister-in-law's dragged me there. I think she gets a kick out of insinuating that I need to dress more 'ladylike,' whatever _that_ means. She can be a real pain in the neck." Her giggle cuts short, eyes popping wide as hubcaps. "But—don't tell her I said that. I love her. I do. Usually. Sometimes."

Someone needs to switch to decaf. "So you haven't been stalking them or anything?"

When she doesn't cough up a response, Sam jumps in to press her further. "Some of the neighbors mentioned that it might've been you poking around their place recently."

Her eyes dart back and forth; then she takes a deep breath. "It was only dragons."

You'd choke on your own spit if you didn't know for a fact that those winged bastards exist. "Only?" Sam echoes.

"No, wait—sorry, that probably sounded like I'm completely off my rocker. But I'm not; I swear. Perfectly normal." This oughta be good. "I met Lisa at our annual church picnic a couple weeks back. She and I…well, we found out that we both share a certain romanticism for the medieval era—you know, the beginning of the Renaissance. Gothic architecture. Knights. Queens. Dragons."

"Dragons."

"Yeah, they're really keen." You can barely contain your excitement. "Her husband thought it was all baloney, of course, but so what if it is? I find the fantastical…stimulating. It inspires us to dream of greater things."

You don't know if you'd use the word "greater," but okay.

"Lisa and I would spend a lot of time at the museum together, or she'd invite me over to show me latest art piece she'd acquired, but goodness, I never _stalked_ them. Am I being accused of something? What exactly is the concern here?"

"They're dead," you say point-blank. "That's kind of the concern."

Much as you suspected, Charlene doesn't react, instead glancing down at the folded hands in her lap.

"But you already know that, don't you?" You retrieve the letter from your pocket and slide it over to her. "Found this in Lisa's dresser. Know anything about this?"

"I…I've never seen that before..."

"Then you won't mind if we swipe this and see if it matches the print on the stationery."

You reach for the used napkin, but you don't even make it an inch before she's cryin' uncle. "Okay, okay! It was me. But—not the dead part! The writing the letter part." The way she's looking at you, she could give woobie Sam a run for his money. "Please don't tell anyone. I didn't kill them; you have to believe me!"

"Listen, we don't care who you're sharing the bed with at night," Sam says, and she seems to perk up at that. "We just want to get the guy who did this."

"So help us," you lean forward and stare her square in the eye, "by telling us what you know."

She presses her lips together, sizing you and Sam up, but looks like she's finally going to spill the beans. "I didn't fight in the war, not with guns or bombs, but what I did—it was important. Big. Like decoding communications between enemy fighter pilots big."

You raise your eyebrows. "You were a codebreaker? That actually kicks some serious ass."

Her head tilts, reminding you of the jet lag on some of your phrasing. Ness and that real firecracker of a biddy're probably still laughing it up over your terrible Connery. "Kick…ass? Oh, no, I hate confrontation. Why do you think I was stuck in a room full of machines? Not that I'm really supposed to reveal that, but I've had worse things keeping me up at night. And…I don't know. I feel like I can trust you. Does that sound weird?"

"I've heard much weirder."

She goes on to tell you that she was a shoo-in for this top secret project to build the first computer (which of course Sam knows the name of, the fucking nerd) but ended up in some dumb secretary job down at the local station. "I know five different languages—well, if you count Morse code, which I do—I intercepted German military correspondence that may have very well led to our victory, and they have me sharpening pencils and answering phones?"

Sam's scratching his head as much as you are. "I'm sorry; what does this have to do with the Walshes, exactly?"

"I was desperate," she says. "But not _that_ desperate. One of the detectives promised to put in a good word to get me a few rungs up the ladder, but since most of the men are real sleazebags down at the precinct, I thought he meant to make me another notch in his bedpost, natch. I hated that crummy place, anyway, so I was ready to give him a piece of my—"

You butt in before you get the spins. "The point. Please."

"Right. Sorry. Guess I'm just nervous. I talk a lot when I'm…I'm doing it again, aren't I?" She blows out a sigh like a deflating balloon. "Reconnaissance. That's what he actually needed. Said I was the perfect gal for it."

In other words, the girl got duped into doing someone else's dirty work. "And this thing with Lisa…" You wave the letter at her. "You were supposed to be like, what, a honeypot?"

Charlene wrinkles her nose. "What? No. It was Steven I was keeping an eye on."

"Why? The cops think he wasn't on the up-and-up?"

"I don't know what the police were after. All he told me was to find a way to befriend the Walshes so I could monitor Steven's activity and report anything out of the ordinary. I mean, he was _really_ interested in the guy, so it probably had to be drugs. It's almost always drugs."

Drugs? Great. That means Vice got their hooks in her. "This detective that asked for your help…was his name Roy Earle, by any chance?"

She stiffens a bit. "How'd you know?"

You ignore the question. "You ever find out anything?"

Don't get much more than a shrug from her. "The man's dull as dishwater. Lucky for me, he was too busy stuffing his nose in books about ancient rituals and spiritual enlightenment to notice that I was stealing his wife right out from under him. He'd sooner suspect the milkman than me."

You trade glances with Sam. Oh, crud. Rituals? Spiritual enlightenment? That's never good. "What was he researching?"

"He had these textbooks on Gnosticism and other mystical beliefs, some that he'd recently acquired. A bunch of isms that didn't make any sense to me. I prefer to stay on the earthly plane."

"Right, 'cause dragons are more your thing."

"Wait, Gnosticism?" Sam asks. "You mean, like gnosis? The concept that influenced a ton of early religions?"

She nods. "There was that huge discovery over in Egypt about two years ago where they found all those Gnostic writings. You remember that on the news, right? Nag Hammadi?" Apparently, that's an Egyptian town and not some fashion dude named Armani, as Sam oh-so-helpfully corrects you. "Theology certainly isn't my field of expertise, but he was awfully fascinated with it. Wrote up a lot of notes. Almost like he was studying for a school exam."

"And you never asked him about it?"

"It all seemed so…pointless to me, so no, I didn't bother. I assumed he was preparing for one of the seminars he sometimes teaches over at the university, but I guess he was being a tad secretive about it. Maybe he was working on a new exhibit at the historical society…although I don't know what on earth it would have to do with Californian history." She hesitates, chewing at her lip. "Come to think of it, there was one thing that was rather strange, but…I don't know. It's probably nothing."

"Please, miss. Anything you can tell us will be helpful."

"I caught a glimpse of his notes once when he'd left them out on his desk, and he had scribbled an entire section—I mean, pages and pages—on… _Templars._ "

Thank God it's not dragons.

"Templars?" Sam does a double-take from you to Charlene. "As in, the Knights Templar? The Crusades?"

"I'm not sure. That would be my first thought."

"But…why would that be weird? If he's such a history buff, anyway?"

"Like I mentioned before, he doesn't much care for the medieval. Says it's as overplayed as Bing Crosby. Pedestrian. I don't know why he had a sudden curiosity towards it."

"Maybe he had a come-to-Jesus moment," you remark with a smirk, and Sam gets that _Lord, grant me serenity_ look to 'im. "More importantly, does Roy know?"

Her eyebrows pinch together. "Not to my knowledge. At least, I haven't told him anything. Discussing scholarly pursuits seems like something that would make his eyes glaze over."

"Good. Make sure you keep it that way." Don't mean you can breathe easy, though; angels have to be onto something if they knew enough to tail Walsh. You ask Charlene where he might still have these Gnostic texts or where he got them from, but she's none the wiser; says he might've took them with the day he disappeared. And since mumbo jumbo like that would've stuck out like a sore thumb while you were combing his study, chances are, they're already in the hands of those dicks. Which means this is turning out to be a monumental waste of time.

You massage the bridge of your nose. "So you have no idea why someone would want Walsh dead?"

"He may have been obsessed with his work, but the man was harmless. Not someone I would picture as running with the wrong crowd."

"If it was him they were after, how does Lisa factor into all this?"

"She doesn't. Or at least…she wasn't supposed to." Charlene eyes the whiskey, her hands working into a finger-shaped pretzel. "She was…I don't really know how to explain it, you know? Roy wanted me to get the dope on Steven by making a pass at him, but when I was with Lisa…I didn't expect it to happen, but something about it felt so… _natural._ Like we were kindred spirits." Oh, shit, that's a tear she just wiped away. "I never meant for her to get hurt. She shouldn't have been home…she shouldn't have—"

And here come the fucking waterworks. Sam Winchester, Overly Concerned Individual, whips out the Kleenex faster than his own gun. "It's not your fault. You didn't know."

You're tempted to quip that your shoulder is off-limits, but you end up gritting your teeth when your head starts throbbing. The wince is enough to make your brother look over at you. "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Think I need some aspirin." You gesture at Charlene. "Don't suppose you got any?"

She blows her nose—and dear God, it's so loud, you're surprised she doesn't snort her brains out—then points you in the direction of the kitchen. "It'll be the cupboard straight ahead. Glasses are to the left."

The water from the tap tastes like ass. Might as well be drinking from a rusty tin can, and you don't even want to think about what might be swimming around in that unfiltered shit, but you grin and bear it long enough to pop a couple pills. Compared to the other doozies you've had, though, this don't even make the cut, and in a messed up kind of way, you guess you're grateful for the everyday aches and pains. Reminds you that there's least a part of you that's still normal.

Not that it don't stop strange things from happening to you. Like the immediate jerk of your head when you hear the sound of…is that the dial adjusting on the radio?

"De…ake…p…" The culprit's the small tube model on the counter, and maybe you're just seeing things, but you swear you saw the needle move. "…eed you t…"

Nothing but garble and static. You wait for it to clear up, only to lose patience and switch it off. The piece of junk doesn't turn back on, so you blink and get over it.

Sam unwinds about thirty reels as you walk back into the living room, but you can tell you're in for a grilling later. You don't pay it any mind, though, 'cause something in these old gears of yours clicks when you remember a detail that don't fit right about Charlene's sob story. "You said she shouldn't have been home. What did you mean by 'shouldn't'?"

Cue deer in headlights. "I—she was at the wrong place, the wrong time. A freak accident."

"No…naw, I think you know more than you're letting on. What're you keeping from us, Charlene?" You're sick of pulling teeth, so when she doesn't answer, it's time to play hardball. "See, here's the situation. Based on what you've told us, you're the perfect mark for a patsy. The evidence points to you, and you better damn well believe that whoever's behind this is gonna make sure it's all pinned on you. So if you know who broke into the Walshes yesterday and bumped Lisa off, you better cough it up now while we can still help."

"Help?"

Sam offers up a snot-free tissue. "Help."

"You promise you'll keep my family safe? You won't do anything to my brother?"

"Wait, your brother?"

That's when you notice the photo on top of the piano. You recognize Charlene—must be her family that's standing on the steps of some church. You pick out the old dude holding a Bible. "Your dad a pastor?"

"First Baptist Church. The one over on Selma Avenue by the Egyptian Theatre." She heaves her shoulders before falling back into her chair. "I believe there's something out there, but I don't think this is it, personally. Frank, though, my brother…he's a believer. He's set to take my father's place when he, you know. Knocks on the pearly gates."

Is he, now?

"Have you noticed anything…off…about Frank recently?" Sam asks.

"I—I'm not really certain. Maybe? The day Steven came back, my brother…out of the blue, he tells me I'm taking too long, that he has to take matters into his own hands. At the time, I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was going on about. It could've been whitewashing that lousy tool shed out back; he's always grumbling about something." Her head shakes as she continues, "I knew Frank and Roy were acquainted—Roy had introduced himself to my family at the church picnic—but I didn't put two and two together until after…" There's a pause as she covers her mouth. "You don't think he—"

"I'm sorry, Charlene, but we have to explore all possibilities."

She hangs her head.

"Where's Frank at now?" You hate to do it, but she's gone silent on you, and you'll have to poke her where it'll hurt. "Do we have to add impeding a federal investigation to the list?"

Sam elbows you. "Dude."

"Monterey," she finally admits. "He's up there for a Baptist conference this weekend." Jesus Christ, a real lead. Now there's something to halle-fucking-lujah about. "Please…please don't hurt him. I don't think he was himself."

If it makes her feel any better, you don't know, but you tell her you think she's probably right.

Losing control of your own damn reins…well. Might be something you can relate to.

You thank her for her time and head for the door. "Listen, don't trust this Roy character. He's bad news. Don't tell him anything, including that we were ever here. And you take care of yourself, okay? Get out of that dead end job and find something where people respect you."

"Actually, you might want to relocate altogether," Sam adds. "If we're asking questions, the other guys aren't far behind."

"What other guys?"

"The guys that wanted the Walshes dead in the first place."

Way to go, Sam. Poor girl's petrified.

"Hey, you outsmarted those Nazi bastards. Something tells me you'll be fine." And…eh. For some reason, you've got a certain kinda fondness for the kid, so you throw her a bone. "By the way, dragons? Totally real."

Pretty sure that's not the door squeaking when it closes.

You're ready for a celebratory beer after that whole runaround, but it's barely five seconds before Sam's jumping on your case again. "What was that back there? Another migraine?"

Whatever it was, he's definitely not making it any better. "I didn't get dizzy and black out, if that's what you're asking. Just your average, garden-variety headache. Probably from all the circles that girl spun us in. What, you gonna interrogate me every time I get a little pinprick?"

"No, but…you'll let me know if they're getting bad again, right?"

You tell Sam what he needs to hear to back off, and he squeezes his gigantic, hulking figure into the car without another word.

"So, Templars," you say once the air clears. "That's pretty friggin' sweet."

"Yeah, pretty friggin' sweet how there was an entire campaign of false accusations and burning them at the stake."

"Didn't some of them worship the devil?"

"You do realize that the enigma surrounding the Knights Templar and their so-called secret society is largely exaggerated by popular culture? They only admitted to worshipping the devil because they were tortured if they didn't."

Last you checked, most of the things you've tortured did hail the pointy-tailed son of a bitch. "We always seem to have a knack for running into the one exception, though, don't we? Hell, that's why we're in business. Grain of truth in everything, way I see it."

Sam does the one-shoulder shrug. "Yeah, maybe, but…if this really does have something to do with archaic theologies, Gnosticism isn't devil worship, Dean. It's more about the moral constructs of duality. Opposites that balance each other out. Chaos and order; the material and spiritual. And yeah, Lucifer and God. In some form or another."

"A deadbeat dad and a fallen angel with all the maturity of a whiny teenage brat." You let out whistle. "Oh, yeah, that's what I'd call perfect harmony. Though I hear ol' Luci's got a great set of pipes."

"Ugh, please don't remind me."

He ain't kidding. He's banned you from playing "Stairway to Heaven" ever again. Or "Heat of the Moment." Especially on Tuesdays. For the love of God, do not let this man anywhere near Asia on a Tuesday.

"Anyway, it's kind of the basis for enlightenment in many major religions—the concept that spiritual wisdom and denial of the flesh brings you closer to God."

You don't know 'bout that; it wasn't till after Bible study that you and Suzy Lee saw the light. Twice. "After all we've seen, think I'm better off in the dark."

"A lot of people believe that knowledge lights the path to salvation. That's basically what the Greek word 'gnosis' means."

Leave it to Professor Wiki to totally miss the point here. "Dude, how many cases have we been on where we've dealt with something as cool as Templars? We could be looking for the Holy Grail. And if it leads to one melty-faced dickbag angel, I'm all for it."

"Really, Dean? The Holy Grail?" You hit a stoplight, and he leans back in his seat. "Wow, you're actually giddy about this."

"Shut up; you're not harshing my Indiana Jones mellow." Already got the kickass fedora; just need to track down a whip. Preferably at some adult toy store so you can pick up a couple other things while you're at it. "Harrison Ford, man. Han Solo; the friggin' blade runner…"

Your brother starts cracking a grin, and you ask him what's so damn hilarious. "No, nothing. I just…didn't realize you had such a big crush on him."

"Eat me, Sam."

The chucklehead's still snickering even as he faces forward again. Yeah, that's right. Should spend more time keeping his eyes on the road. Bitch.

"Whatever this thing is," he says, "both teams are after it. What's the drug trafficking got to do with it, though?"

"Man, I got no frickin' clue. Maybe nothing. Maybe Bart's just trying to keep up appearances and get in good with the boss man. Finding the brother's our biggest concern."

"Agreed."

"Angels." The corner of your lip curls. "I hate these guys."

"You got Cas as an exception."

A toothy smile stretches across his face, and you snort under your breath, glancing out the window as the Buick coasts through downtown L.A. "Oh. Yeah. Real nice that the big man upstairs decided to break the angelic dick mold with Spockstiel."

"Lemme guess: that makes you James Tiberius Kirk?"

"Damn straight. And Baby's my USS _Enterprise._ Don't worry; you can be Bones."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm serious, though. I'm…it's good. Cas being back. I know, uh. How much that means to you."

He's clearing his throat. Why does he need to clear his throat?

"I just did what we'd do for any friend," you tell him. "You do remember he's _our_ friend, right?"

"Well, yeah, I mean…I love the guy, too, but you two have history."

Every instinct's warning you not to push that button. Don't you dare push it. Don't you fucking _dare_ push it.

"Meaning?"

You fucking push it.

"I don't know; you just seem…happier when he's around, and…not happy when he's not. That's all."

"And what? Basic human emotion is suddenly a crime?"

"No, but usually, you'd rather sit on a hill of fire ants buck-ass naked than have a feelings jam. Even when you were all amped up on the Mark of Cain, there were times it seemed like he could still…" He trails off, forcing out a chuckle. "Actually, I…it's stupid, but I guess I'm a little…I don't know. Jealous, maybe."

"Oh, come on. Jealous? What's there to be jealous about? You think me and Cas are baking cookies and riding two-seater bicycles and playing hopscotch behind your back?" Although there was that one bizarre-as-fuck game of Twister that you thought you'd blocked from memory until now. "For chrissakes, Sammy, you're my kid brother. You can't possibly think that I would ever—"

He holds up a hand, and if he starts singing the Supremes, you're commandeering the wheel and pulling this car over. "It's not for the reasons you think, Dean. I mean, I'm glad. I am. Cas is…he's a good friend. And I'm glad you're friends, or…you know. Whatever."

The hell? _Or whatever?_ "I'm not gay for Cas, Sam. That's like the equivalent of saying I'm gay for you."

Congratulations, dumbass, you just turned this into _50 Shades of More Awkward._

"I—what? No. Don't even—" There goes the face palm. "Never mind."

You wouldn't mind plunking your ass down on that fire ant hill now.

Except for the pit stop for beer (which Sam is vaguely pissy about even though he forks over the dough at the register), the rest of the ride's quiet. Until you pull into the parking lot, that is, where Sam insists on dragging this out long enough that you can literally hear your limbs crunching as he backs up over your body. Repeatedly. "All I was trying to say earlier is that I know this"—he motions between the two of you—"is important. It'll always be important. And I don't want to lose that. We aren't gonna lose that. But…"

The back of your jaw grinds together. "But what, Sam?"

You don't know if he finally gets a clue or if he's just as tired as you are, but he folds and reaches for the door handle instead. "Another time. We should go check in with Cas."

Fine by you. In fact, if he never brings this up again, by golly, that'd sure be swell.

This motel's a one-floor kinda joint—pink? Really, Sam?—with a flashing neon palm tree on the sign. No more amenities than the last place, but least it doesn't appear to be home sweet home to a medium-sized population of rats or a couple of keyed-up spooks. You locate Cas in the room he booked down on the end, ignoring the loop-the-loop in your stomach when he opens the door and mentally penciling in an hour of kicking Sam's ass for fucking with your head. In the meantime, you get straight down to business. 'Cause that's the sort of person you are. Straight.

"Find anything other than a UTI at the morgue?" you ask, discarding the suit jacket and loosening your tie to give yourself room to breathe.

"Your friends," is all he says, something 'bout his tone cool enough to make you forget how much you miss central air. "Because they're all dead."

Your eyebrows get about as tall as Sam. Did—did he just zing you? On purpose? _Cas?_

Hmph. Touchy, touchy.

"Which is precisely what a morgue is equipped to handle, of course. Dead people."

Yeah, okay, that's more like it.

You don't roll up your sleeves half as far you do your eyes. "Keep working on your delivery there, buddy."

He screws his face up at you. "I was supposed to deliver the body somewhere?"

"The autopsy results, Cas." Dingbat.

You tell yourself the warm feeling creeping up into your chest is indigestion.

"The report didn't reveal anything we hadn't already assumed about Steven Walsh; they did indeed find deposits of sulfur in his lungs and traces of it on his clothes and skin. No question that a demon got a hold of him only to meet a combustible fate. However…" He hands over a notepad with a crude sketch. "He was wearing a ring with this emblem."

You turn it a few different angles, trying to read the inscription around the outer edge. Latin? "What's it say?"

"'Templi Secretum.' It means 'secret temple.'"

"What's the weird-looking thing in the middle? With the rooster's head and snakes for legs?"

"Abrasax."

"The Santana album?"

"A deity, actually—a symbol of Gnostic origin purportedly used by heretics within the order of the Knights Templar."

You nod over at Sam, passing off the notepad to him. "That sounds about right, don't it?"

Cas crosses his arms. "It does?"

"You know much about Templars?"

"Well, for one," he begins, "the way your media depicts them is wildly inaccurate."

Is there some nerd con he and Sam both go to that you don't know about? "I mean, do you know why angels would be so interested in them?"

"Why?"

You fill Cas in on what you wrestled outta Charlene, though that doesn't seem to spark any ideas why Walsh was on Bart's most wanted list. The name Frank Packman doesn't jog his memory, neither. "You think Bart could be searching for, I dunno…the Holy Grail?"

Sam puffs out a sigh. Well, he can puff it out his ass. "Dean, you just want to go treasure hunting."

"Like that's even a question?"

"It…wasn't a question."

"It's not a terrible conjecture." See, Sam? Bet Cas would hit that treasure trail with you. "Perhaps not the Holy Grail, per se, but the involvement of some sort of religious relic seems likely at this point."

You swipe a set of fingers through your hair. "Only other thing I can think of is maybe he's trying to get these Knights back up and kicking. Relive the glory days?"

"Anything's possible, but I don't know why Bartholomew would require an army of Templars. Angels are far more skilled as warriors. And he certainly doesn't need the exorbitant wealth they allegedly buried."

Sam takes another gander of the sketch before slapping it down on the table. "Wonder if Walsh had any ties to the Freemasons? If it's not the history itself he cares about, maybe it has something to do with a more modern organization. Some people suspect that certain Masonic lodges may be linked to the Knights Templar, depending which one you belong to."

"Lodge? Sounds like a bunch of old farts sweating it out in a hot cooker." You're shiverin' just thinking about it.

"Not…that kind of lodge. And thanks for that image."

Cas grunts like he's a little too pleased with himself, and oh, God, he's got that dorky look in his eye again. "What, Beavis?"

"Perhaps the angels are attempting to steal the Declaration of Independence."

That almost deserves a slow clap. Except no, not even close. "Okay, we need to get you going on some _Raiders_ because you seriously did not just dumb this down from Ford to Cage. And no, mind melding with Meta Douche doesn't count."

"Treasure or not," Sam says, pulling out the map he grabbed from the front desk, "looks like we better see what this Frank guy knows. And if he's in Monterey…that's about five hours, give or take, so that rules out any chance of tracking him down tonight."

"Best we hit the sack, then, and get an early start."

You're stuck bunking with Cas, mostly because Sam's only got the one bed and Cas doesn't snore like a foghorn. Seemed like the logical choice.

Course, you made the decision _before_ nearly smacking your head on the door jamb because apparently Cas enjoys bumming around in nothing but his skivvies.

One layer minimum. That's the rule you and Sam have lived by for long as you can remember, and you're about to explain to Cas that he needs to get with the program, but then he starts moaning and griping about the fucking heat and human fucking "sensitivities" and other fucking things you really don't need to be fucking hearing at any point in your lifetime and thank fuck Sam isn't here to witness this because you totally did not just notice how fucking ripped the dude is.

You're just, y'know…shocked, is all. Shocked. Yeah. That's a good word for it. Sure, the guy used to be able to vaporize demons with his brain, but you always figured him for a string bean underneath all that coat. And okay, there was that one time he showed up naked on your car, but dude was covered in bees. _Bees,_ man. And that's just not pretty for anyone.

Not that…this is pret—you need to stop talking. You really need to stop talking. In your head. Why the fuck are you talking in your goddamn head?

Beer. Beer's what you need. You're gonna beeline it for that icebox, eyes fucking forward, and—goddammit, now you're thinking about bees again.

"Dean? Are you…all right?"

Fuck, he caught you looking—wait, _were_ you looking? Shit, forget that; say something to smooth it over.

You cough into your sleeve. "No, uh…just wondering since when angels hit up the gym and the tanning salon. You're, uh…puttin' me to shame."

That is so not smoothing it over.

Luckily, Cas swallows it like he usually does: literally. "Angels don't require physical conditioning, Dean. Though I suppose now that I'm human, I'll have to walk so I…don't get 'flabby.'" Christ, that better not be a wink he's giving you. "But Jimmy did take very good care of himself. Well, aside from his weakness for red meat. What's that phrase? 'We all have our vices'?"

Speaking of which, there's about four of 'em in the fridge with your name on them.

As you're scrambling for the bottle opener, Cas thinks he can be a sneaky little bastard and help himself.

He's got a different use for it, though.

"On second thought," he drags the bottle along the back of his neck and down to the collarbone, slicking himself up with the ice cold sweat as he makes a noise in his throat you're pretty sure you ain't ever meant to hear, "perhaps the body's responsiveness to stimuli isn't always so vexing. This is rather…gratifying."

You turn around and chug your beer so fast, you don't even care about the fucking brain freeze. Not that it does you one lick of good; the tips of your ears still got a burn to 'em that's all manner of unholy. Which is funny, considering it's on the other side of the world right now. The sun, that is. And normally, it's good for that kinda thing. Burning things. 'Cause it's…you know. Hot. Did you mention it's hot? Cas mentioned it's hot. Bitched, actually. What's the friggin' moon done for anyone lately, huh?

Your shoes could really use some polishing.

"What, uh…" You flick your tongue over your lips, trying to grasp at something, _anything_ else to talk about. "Happened to Jimmy, anyway? He's not still rattling around in there, is he? 'Cause that would be, y'know. Weird."

Not that you need to know for any particular reason.

"No. I'm afraid he's long been dead, but at least that means he's in heaven." His shoulders sag a bit as he reaches for a familiar army green duffle bag, plopping it down on the bed. "I managed to retrieve your belongings while you were questioning that woman."

Your eyes widen as you zip it open and spot the Colt, feeling that pearl of a beauty in your hand again. "Oh, man, Cas. I thought I'd never see this stuff again. I could—"

"But you're adverse to affection. Yes, I know. You're welcome, regardless."

After stealing your damn beer and doing… _that_ with it, you reckon that makes you even.

"So this Abrasax dude," you say, checking all of the guns' magazines. 'Cause although you're a dipshit, you're gonna prove to yourself you're at least a semi-functional dipshit who can still carry on a normal conversation with someone. Even if you can't look at them straight. Er…fuck. "Higher than your dad?"

"It depends on the theory you subscribe to. Some say Abrasax was a god; others, a demon. Carl Jung surmised that Abrasax surpassed even Jehovah and Lucifer; the sum total of opposites coalescing into one divine being."

"So you don't actually know if this thing is real or not."

"It does stand to reason that if I've no tangible knowledge of it, it likely doesn't exist. But I'm not omniscient, Dean. I've witnessed things I've never thought possible. Truthfully…" Your back's to him, but your spine stiffens as you feel him move closer. "Well, lately, I find myself surprised more often than not."

You pretend to busy yourself, inspecting your collection of knives before tossing them back into your duffle. "Life's a bitch like that."

"Not all surprises are bad."

You glance over your shoulder, and now you're the one catching him in the act. Only there isn't the break in your gaze or the red on your ears this round. "I still recall those nights you prayed to me. In purgatory."

Yeah, you remember, too. How you screamed yourself hoarse on the bad days and choked up on the worse ones, Benny probably figuring you for certifiable. Good times.

"I love my father, but…" The mattress squeaks as he sits down on the bed across from you. "Dean, you became more real to me than he ever was. How a man filled with so much unbelief could have so much… _hope._ "

You don't say nothin'. Couldn't even if you wanted to, not with that lump swelling up in your throat and the space between your ribs shrinking at his every word.

"And it…nearly destroyed me. I didn't deserve that; I didn't deserve your faith in me. But eventually, I realized that perhaps I needed something to believe in as much as you did. And I…" He rubs his eyes, palming his forehead. "I simply can't bring myself to let go of the fact that somehow, you're still hanging on."

It takes a couple moments to pull yourself together long enough to attempt a response. Something safe. Something that don't give away how your mouth's gone completely cotton dry. How goddamn fidgety you are inside and how you're too fucking scared to know the reasons why. "We've been through the trenches together. S'pose it's only natural that we got this…war buddies, foxhole kinda vibe."

Cas gets real quiet, but there's a smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Like Hemingway."

It doesn't sink in until after the lights go out. "Whoa, no, _not_ like—" But he's already dozed off, limbs all cattywampus and sweating up the sheets in a pair of skivvies that are probably breaking more than just your one layer rule right now.

Fuck Sam and his "or whatever."

You're buying a fucking portable air conditioner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Although this fic draws upon actual, existing concepts, like other representations in popular culture, this fic will delve into more of the mythos regarding the Knights Templar order, Freemasonry, and Gnostic (not to be confused with "agnostic") influences rather than fact, so please take everything with a grain of salt. I'm not sure how much these ideas will play a part in the fic just yet, but some Gnostic beliefs and symbolism seem to parallel quite nicely with the fic's theme (though I've obviously taken the liberty of tailoring certain things to fit the plot). I'm actually a little surprised it hasn't come up in SPN canon at all (that I can recall) considering the Knights Templar order's alleged ties to the occult and the popularity of those allegations, but hey, if the show keeps renewing…there's one idea to keep things going. ;) 
> 
> Also, women codebreakers during WWII were totally [a real, completely amazing thing](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/history/world-war-two/11308744/The-extraordinary-female-codebreakers-of-Bletchley-Park.html) that everyone should know about.


	8. Just a Flesh Wound

Five seconds. That's how long it takes for you to regret you ever opened your eyes at all, which is probably some sorta new world record. It's not even that you wake up with a dick that's gone full mast on you; you know how to deal with morning wood. You either wait it out, or you do a little toilet gymnastics and hope you land your mark. A fucking annoyance more than anything.

What you can't deal with is Cas. Standing right there next to you. Whipping open the curtains and shining the light on all your glory. While you're tenting it worse than some horny high school kid catching his hot teacher in the middle of a bend 'n' snap.

You'd swear the universe hates you, but you knew that long before angels meant something more to you than T&A in a set of high heels and costume wings.

Now, it's just getting its friggin' kicks on.

You scramble to get some sheet coverage going, but Cas don't seem the least bit fazed. Actually, you're not entirely sure he noticed, the way he lazily rubs his eyes and stumbles back towards the kitchenette to brew the morning sludge. But after a replay of last night comes to mind, it doesn't stop you from groaning into your pillow and muttering a string of curses that would even make George Carlin blush. If you dreamt at all, thank fuck you don't remember anything.

On the other hand, dude's been human long enough, right? He's gotta know that there's a difference between your sexy boners and your piss boners. Unless you're waking up next to a fine piece of ass, it's always the second kind. Facts of life, man.

Today, you're attempting the wait-it-out route, which isn't a sure bet every time, but it's safer than fumbling for a pair of clean duds out in the open while Cas is still only a few feet away. Least he's wearing something that actually qualifies as clothing, bumbling about the coffee maker in a t-shirt and pajama pants that look like they're a size too big for him. And when he yawns and stretches his arms, you get to thinking that he should maybe invest in the drawstring kind. Those pants're riding so ungodly low, you can see the vee in his hips—which, huh. Maybe that's the real reason why everyone keeps gettin' all googly-eyed over him like he's a damn supermodel. Apparently, hips _don't_ lie.

And…oh, God. The twitch in your shorts ain't lying, neither.

Your next five-second record involves you totally screwing the waiting method and making a mad dash for the john before Cas can edge in so much as a good morning.

After a towel-off and a couple slaps of aftershave, it's not until you're buttoning up your cuffs that you realize what time it is. "It's almost eight already? We should've been on the road by six at the latest."

Cas adjusts his tie—guess he finally decided to get himself all civilized while you were showering in water the temperature of Antarctica—and reaches for a second mug. "You were tossing and turning in your sleep for most of the night. I told Sam to give you a couple more hours." He pours you a cupful of joe, and you mumble a thanks. Really wish it was Irish. "How are you feeling?"

You ignore the fact that there's more than heat waves from the coffee warming your cheeks. "Hunky dory."

"Have you…" his eyes shift to the side as if he's choosing his words carefully, "…been seeing more things?"

You gulp down your first sip a little too fast. Fuck, that burns. "Like what?"

"Strange things."

Okay, so he's talking supernatural. Good…that's, uh, good. "That's kinda in our job description, Cas."

"I'm referring to ones like you saw at the other motel. Any visions, apparitions…any memories coming back to you?"

"No. Head feels bolted on tight for the most part." First part's true. Second part's a flat-out lie, but a psychological lobotomy is the last thing you need right now.

"I see." You can't tell if that's his usual squinty face or his sensing-a-disturbance-in-the-force squinty face, but before you bother to ask, he changes the subject. "I've been going over my notes on the drug raids all morning, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had come across the name Frank Packman before." He shows you a page he's got dog-eared in his notebook, digging up a grainy black and white photo of a Chevy pickup. Frank's the beanpole leaning against it. "While searching for correlations, I discovered that some of these so-called 'hopheads' were too poor to afford a lawyer, but Frank offered his assistance with the promise he wouldn't charge more than they were able to pay."

"Pay? I thought everybody had the right to a lawyer."

"That wasn't legislated until several years later in the case of Gideon versus Wainwright."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, _Sam._ " Soon as you drop the name, though, your smirk flatlines, jabbed with an unexpected reminder that your brother would probably be some big shot lawyer if you hadn't sucked him back into the family business. Wife, kids, a sweet piece of real estate—the whole works. Hell, Jess might still be…

"Anyway," Cas says, snapping you back to attention. The ritual self-loathing will have to wait. "The majority of defendants who went to court wound up losing their cases. And the ones Frank counseled? Every one of them was indicted."

"You think he rigged it so they lost on purpose?"

He hums to himself. "It is rather dubious."

You nod to nobody in particular, scratching at the underside of your chin. "Pretty contradictory, dontcha think? Him being a lawyer and some Bible-thumping tool?"

"Perhaps he…saw the light." Now it's your turn to squint as he leans over and whispers, "That was a pun."

"Yeah, Groucho, I got it." You pat him on the back, 'cause kid's trying, at least. And…whatever. So it's kinda… _whatever._ Something that rhymes with "boot." As in, you're gonna need a boot up your ass if you don't wipe that dopey grin off your face.

"Whatever is transpiring," Cas says, "I suggest we prepare ourselves." He slips on a leather shoulder holster over the pinstripe vest and loads up a .38, which for some dumbfuck reason makes the back of your neck all itchy and has your brain short circuiting on that stupid Shakira song again. "Although Bartholomew has yet to make any real move himself, he has to be orchestrating something, and I doubt whoever is possessing Frank's vessel will be so inclined to indulge our curiosity if they are indeed responsible for the Walshes' deaths."

You eye him funny as he snaps the cylinder shut and passes the Smith & Wesson over to you. "What good is squirting metal into an angel gonna do other than piss him off?"

"The bullets are special. Cast from a melted-down angel blade."

"Shit, you can do that?" You get a look-see of the rounds yourself before shoving the revolver into your own holster. How the hell have you and Sam gone six years without that ever crossing your mind? "Freakin' awesome. You're one handy son of a bitch; you know that?"

"I do always try to stay a _foot_ ahead of the game."

Walked right into that one.

"As much as I hate to give that long-winded weasel any credit, the idea really came from Crowley." Great. Another thing to lose sleep over. "Back when I was on the run with the angel tablet, Crowley managed to corner me, and I suffered a gunshot wound to my lower abdomen."

"That time you were almost road kill. Yeah, I remember."

"It was actually quite fortuitous that he shot me."

"There's a bright side to having a gutful of lead?"

"Not lead, no. But yes. One of my brothers had defected, and…well." There's a sigh as he wiggles into his suit jacket. "I can't say I'm proud of myself, but I was desperate. So I dislodged the bullet piece from my intestines and jammed it into his eye. Much more effective than I anticipated. And if his screams were any indication, the pain must have been quite excruciating as well."

Mouth. Shapes. Words. Not happening. "You…wh-what now?"

But Cas' already zapped off to another world, eyes trained outside the window. "Look at that fella," he says, smiling like a total goober. You peer over to see what's got his socks knocked off, and—seriously? It's just a damn squirrel, buddy. "Trying so hard to fill those cheeks with more nuts than he can hold. Eager little guy, isn't he?"

Jesus Christ, you're roomies with a Happy Tree Friend. Man sees a pet store, and it's a free-for-all. No. Really. Murder is not out of the question if you're standing between him and petting a guinea pig.

And since you're pretty sure you know where this is headed, best thing to do is grab your hat and drag Cas outta here before someone gets rabies.

You add Sam to the roundup and hightail it up Highway 1 towards Monterey, stopping at one of those old-fashioned carhops with the girls and the gams to remind you you're still an old-fashioned, warm-blooded male. The vista ain't too shabby, either: mountains to the right, mile after fucking mile of water to your left. Closest you ever came to the ocean was when you and Dad were on this siren hunt, _Little Mermaid_ edition. Only souvenir you took with was a nose full of enough salt water that it felt like you were breathing outta Satan's ass. Probably still got sand in places that'll never see the light of day. But those Corona ads—the ones with white beaches and clear skies—give you the notion that the whole lounging thing could be something you'd like to try out for yourself someday.

Someday. Right. Rate you're going, you're a lucky bastard if you make it to the end of the week.

Now, though…now's what's important. Even though you miss the rumble of Baby's V8 and the gently worn leather in your grip, you still got the open road. And when the sun's shining, top rolled down, Sam and his de-Fabio'ed hair bobbing along to "Swinging on a Star" like the dork he is, it almost tricks you into believin' that if you drive fast enough, you just might leave your crap in the dust once and for all.

And then there's Cas in the backseat, who's barely made a peep. You'd forget he's even there if you didn't check the rearview mirror every so often. The number of road trips he's been on with you, you could count on one hand, and you never know if he's 'bout ready to jump out of his skin, being cooped up in a hunk of metal for hours on end. Not that he has much of a choice these days, but…you dunno. It sucks that he's limp without his mojo, sure, and maybe a small part of you is colossally fucked up for secretly being grateful for that, but…

Maybe, uh. Maybe it means he stays this time.

Least the dude seems content to take in the scenery, eyes as blue as the Pacific. Yeah, could get used to that kinda view.

The ocean, you mean.

You cruise into Monterey early afternoon, a seaside town that's a few notches lower on the thermometer. Pleasant enough, you guess, if you've got a clothespin to shut out the sardine stink. The sensory overload has you going off on a rant about _Cannery Row_ till you notice your brother's just sitting there dumbfounded, tilting his head at you. What? You've read Steinbeck. When you weren't up to your ear in drool.

But you're here for a case, not for a goddamn book report. The three of you scout out an abandoned factory and prep the joint: reservation for one Frank Packman. The chains sure add a cozy effect. "Any ideas where this guy might be holing up?" Sam asks once you've finished up, heading back to the Caddy.

"Wherever people're doing handsprings to double-time?" You slick your hair back and tug down your fedora. "Maybe a sermon from good ol' Reverend Brown will knock us up with an epiphany."

"As hilarious as it would be to see you try to lay down some fancy footwork"—he's stifling a laugh, and hey, you've been known to shake a tail feather in your day—"I think we need something a little more practical. Charlene said her family was Baptist, so…we figure out where all the Baptist churches are? Can't be that many, right?"

The winner turns out to be the First Baptist Church of Monterey, only a few blocks from the real Cannery Row. You pick out the Chevy parked near the back of an almost empty lot. "That's it. Frank's truck from the photo." Looks more like a pistachio on wheels with that paint job.

Sam's brow gets all bunched up. "Thought she said he'd be at a conference. Shouldn't there be more cars around?"

"Yeah, something don't smell right about this." Not that it's ever right, but would it kill to have something go, y'know, less wrong?

Cas leans forward, and you feel that damned prickle on your neck. "It does seem rather…fishy."

Good God, you've created a monster.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, telling Cas to switch spots. "You stay here and keep the car running. Might need to make a fast getaway. Can't take chances of anyone recognizing you, so Sam and I will go hunt Frank down."

Hustling up the back cement steps, you make sure you don't got an audience while your brother jimmies the lock. That musty, churchy aroma hits your nostrils the moment you set foot inside. Repression and old money—mmm, your favorite. Sammy takes point, angel blade clenched as he motions with his head around the corner. Even when the old, still-beating ticker of yours starts drumming up against your chest, you keep your breathing relaxed, the revolver steady in your hands. The side entrance to the sanctuary's wide open, and the two of you poke your heads in just in time to catch a trio of mooks radioing Major Tom. Judging by the flop of red hair, Frank's the one doing the honors while the other two trip the angel fantastic.

Oh, hell. It's a recruitment ceremony.

Frank freezes soon as they're signed, sealed, and delivered, stumbling over his own jaw as he charges towards you. "This is a private—" Introducing him to your pals Smith & Wesson shuts him up real good. " _Winchesters._ "

So much for not being recognized.

A shot rings out as you dive face-first to the floor, Sam bowling you over with his Sasquatch body as he shoves you behind one of the pews. Your fucking tinnitus acts up as you scrabble at the bench to get your bearings, peeking over the ledge to see which one of these stooges is the culprit.

Your answer's not one—or even two—but _three_ barrels pointed at you now.

"Guns?" you hiss, immediately slouching back down to avoid a dose of lead to the noggin. "They never have guns, Sam!"

"You do!"

Huh. Right.

You squeeze out the first round, but it's a near miss as Frank darts for the front of the sanctuary and fires off half a clip, offering up the schmucks with the beer gut and the buzz cut as bullet shields. After you signal to the other side of the pew, Sam lumbers over to see if he can ferret out an opening to sneak up on Beer Gut while you go toe-to-toe with Buzz Cut. Fortunately for you, he's a crappy aim and nicks the cross hanging over your head, spinning it upside down.

"Hey!" you yell out. "This is a house of God! What about the fifth commandm—"

Another bullet barely whizzes past your ear.

Well, you've never been a fan of the big guy, anyway.

You've officially reached your quota on funny business, so you line up your shot, hold your breath, and nail Buzz Cut square in the ribs. Frank and Beer Gut stagger back, mouths all slack as Buzz Cut flashes like a disco ball. Your upper lip curls into a snarl. "Guess who found the golden gun, dickwads?"

The only rebuttal you get is another bullet shower as they fly the coop, piling into a…oh, _fuck._ They're gonna make off with the black Plymouth sedan. You bolt towards the Caddy, Sam on your heels, and hop into the front seat. "Punch it, Cas!"

"What?"

" _Go,_ dammit!"

Even though the dude looks like he's gonna shit himself, it doesn't dawn on you till after you hear the car peel out and smell the burnt rubber that Cas has driven in absolutely zero high-speed chases.

That's one way to make a praying man outta you.

But damn if he doesn't put the elbow grease into it, foot heavy on the gas as your convertible coupe screeches down towards the waterfront. The Plymouth veers left onto Cannery Row, and you're about to lose more than your hat when you spot the fish vendors up ahead. "Whoa, whoa, Cas… _Cas!_ Jesus Christ, watch—"

Instead of slamming on the brakes full stop, he paws at the wheel, swerving past the carts and dodging a mouthful of mackerel with few inches to spare. Heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, you nearly cough up a lung as all the air rushes out of you. "Holy shit, Cas, that was amazing!"

You don't have a second to breathe just yet, though—not when Frank open fires on you and you realize your magic bullet inventory's down to four. Changing tactics, you yank the Colt from its holster and howl at Cas to pull up alongside them, setting your sights on the Plymouth's tires. Cas tries to deflect Frank's shots much as possible, but that asshat gets lucky and cracks one nasty spider web in the windshield.

"You want us to get closer?" Cas shouts. "Dean, they're _shooting_ at us!"

"Yeah, isn't it great?" A grin splits across your face, wind whipping through your hair. "Like Steve fucking McQueen, baby! Whoo!"

"Your definition of 'great' is highly inaccura—"

Glass sprays everywhere as the windshield blows out, tires squealing out of control. You manage to cover yourself, but one of the shards dings Cas in the forehead. Doesn't keep him from powering through it, your ride scoring some serious drifting action as he swings back on course.

You shrug as he glares at you. "Except for that part!"

And then it resurfaces. That look— _the look—_ you haven't seen since that night in Bobby's kitchen. Apparently, there's no way in hell you're surviving this.

'Cause if you do, he will fucking kill you himself.

The engines roar as you chase the Plymouth up the bend, tearing ass through what probably used to be a park near a deserted pier. Cas finally gets neck-and-neck with them, and with one trigger-happy finger, you pop the Plymouth's back tire. How's _that_ for the fucking Chicago way, huh? Or Monterey. Whatever. You're still fucking awesome.

Both vehicles skid to a halt, and you and your boys don't waste any time planting yourselves behind the coupe as you gear up for another gunfight. Bullets dance on chrome while you focus on Frank, Cas targeting Beer Gut, and it's nothin' but sweet chariots for Beer Gut after Cas makes a clean shot.

Then you hear him cry out, and your stomach empties quicker than any automatic.

"Cas!" He crumples against the Caddy, clutching a bloody shoulder. "That assclown wing you?"

"I'm…" His face twists into something ugly, groaning as he wrings off his jacket to get at the wound. You try to tell him to take it easy, but he pushes you away. "I'm fine," he heaves out. "It's non-lethal. Don't lose Frank."

With the med supplies hidden somewhere in the trunk, you'll have to take his word for it. Course, it wouldn't be a day on the job without things going from bad to worse, and soon as you pull that trigger again, the .38's all clicks. Cas' piece is useless, too. "God fucking—Sammy!" You toss him a set of angel-proof cuffs. "I'm outta magic bullets. I'll keep that monkey's toes tapping; you find a way to knock his ass out."

Snatching the Ithaca 37, you shove a handful of shells into the chamber and pump that bitch. Bastards want to make this personal? Oh, you're peachy with personal. While you carve yourself some swiss angel, Sam ninjas Frank from behind, slashing at 'im with his blade and catching him off-guard just long enough to tackle him onto the ground. But right as your brother's cuffing him, of fucking _course,_ that would be when you hear the sirens.

Unfortunately, you still got Beer Gut lying tits up in the dirt. What he really needs is a salt 'n' burn, but you ain't exactly got the luxury of time, so watery grave, it is. You swipe his wallet and grab his wrists to drag him towards the pier, and— _holy sweet mother of Jesus,_ you're gonna have to roll this one.

Once his heavy ass is fish food, you book it over to Cas, who's torn off his shirt sleeve and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet. "Why didn't you use your tie instead of ruining an entire shirt?"

He glances down at the blue paisley. "I like this tie."

After Sammy locks Frank in the trunk, you bark at him to take the wheel, hoisting Cas up as he hobbles into the car. Far as you can tell, no visual on the black and white yet, so you cut and run before they show up on your front door.

A few minutes into the drive, you catch Cas dozing off and give him a shake. "Hey. Hey, you awake?"

"Yes," he eventually grunts, like he's been adding more gravel to his smoothies than usual. "I'm trying to concentrate on something more relaxing to block out the pain." He closes his eyes again, resting his head against you. "This helps."

You wonder if "this" really has to include rubbing his cheek on your shoulder, but s'pose you shouldn't be a dick to the guy who's bleeding out. And…whatever. So maybe it's a little chillier up north than you expected.

There's a whiff of something weird in the air. Not that metallic-y odor from the blood that's oozed through Cas' shirt, but something different. It's not bad, just…th'hell _is_ that? Something…m—musky?

Oh, he's gotta be kidding you.

"Dude, are you wearing _cologne?_ "

"A lady gave me a sample at the department store," he mutters into your suit sleeve. "If it's irritating you, I can stop wearing it."

Well, at least it's not that Old Spice crap that'll make you reek like a geezer. "No, it's…fine, I guess. It's actually kinda…" You cough into your non-occupied shoulder in a way that's probably faker than you're ready to admit. "It's fine."

You'll pretend Sam isn't leerin' at you in the rearview mirror.

*****

Back at the abandoned factory, Sam takes care of your guest of honor while you and Cas get situated in the office. The only chair in the room's broken, so you clear off the desk and help him undo the tourniquet. The slug's wedged in there deeper than you'd like, but least it's the outer arm and not in the actual shoulder where the major arteries are. God, you don't even want to think about what could've happened if it had been the shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, that ain't nothin' but a scratch." You lightly bump his knee with the first aid kit. "We'll get you patched right up."

You do a quick rundown of supplies. Got your needle, got your thread, disinfectant…other stuff that's probably important but have no idea what it does…got everything 'cept the one key item.

"Booze," you tell him. "You're gonna need booze. Probably left it in the car, so you sit tight, and I'll be back in a jiffy." Even when he's pretty beat, he still puts in the effort to throw you that cross-eyed look. "You'll thank me later."

You fetch the hooch from the trunk, tossing a dirty tarp over the Caddy with the hope that you'll be long gone by the time the cops track it down. Man, what a gorgeous girl she was; real shame to see her go to rust.

After you give her one last pat, you click on your flashlight, weaving your way back through the factory's innards. Can't be too careful with the debris and shit scattered across the floor, and even though this place doesn't seem like it's been operational for years, you swear you can almost hear the clinking in the pipes, the whirring and the grating in all the big-ass machinery. Dunno why, but being here makes your skin crawl if you think about it too much.

Experience and a whole slew of horror flicks show you nothing good ever happens in abandoned factories.

Something crackles underneath your shoe. You bend over, setting down the bottle of whiskey to pick up…some kinda used-up plastic pouch, maybe. Trash, looks like, but with those dark stains around the edges, you're not so keen to make any guesses 'bout what its original contents might've been.

A draft startles you as it breezes past your neck, the pouch dropping back onto the ground. There's a creak, a deep groan in the pipe above your head until it stutters out; a leak that drips so slow, it feels like it's trickling down your spine. You don't have the slightest goddamn clue why, but suddenly, you're forgetting how to swallow, lungs squeezing and gut screaming, _Don't turn around. Don't you fucking turn around._

'Cause when you do, staring right back is something that don't got a face of its own.

Just a black hooded mask.

" _Jesus Chr—_ " Reeling, you nearly fall back on your ass as you scramble for the Colt.

But you blink, and it's gone.

You wipe down your brow, putting your hands on your thighs. Breathe. Breathing's good. When you squint back up, all that's standing in the beam of your flashlight is one of those creepy vintage dress…things.

You were about to shoot a friggin' doll. Stellar work, Winchester.

Punching it doesn't make you feel any better.

Okay, a little better.

Dude, you've been doing the hunting gig for way too long. Gives you more of an active imagination than a kid on his eighth bowl of Fruity Pebbles. Just roll your shoulders and shake it off, man. And drink. Drinking's also good. Thank God the booze's still intact.

There's someone that needs it even more than you at the moment, though, so you get your ass back to the office. "Don't worry, Cas. Done this a thousand—"

You stop in your tracks when you notice the bloody bullet lying on a piece of scrap metal, Cas already up to the third stitch. "Oh. Guess you…got it covered, then."

Maybe it's 'cause you're still hopped up from your meet creep, but something don't feel right when you stretch your fingers. Like your joints got this ache to them and you're not sure what to do about it. Like they should be…fuck, just doing _something._ Instead, you end up dawdling there like an idiot, God knows how long, till you finally remember you're holding a fifth of whiskey and do what feels like the only useful thing you can do. "Here. This'll take the edge off."

Cas don't seem as objectionable to the idea now, taking a swig from the uncapped bottle, you following suit. "Thank you."

Still doesn't feel like you've done enough.

"How's it comin'?" you ask, even though you know the answer's poorly just based on the hell of a grimace he's sporting, but you need something to fill the silence.

"Not as badly as the other times."

"Other? There's been other times?"

"I do not live a dull life. And your involvement, well, that usually guarantees a perpetual state of thrills."

Not commenting on his word choice.

He hisses through his teeth as he hooks the needle in again, then tells you how he had to fend for himself after you punted him to the curb. He didn't say it in those exact terms, but that's how you heard it. How you weren't there when Malachi's goons found him. How you weren't there when some fucker held him at gunpoint at the Gas-N-Sip and he didn't fork over the money fast enough. How you weren't there when he didn't even have a damn roof over his head.

The stupid thing is, that's not what eats at you the most. 'Cause it's not like you just skipped out on one little sewing class; it's all the things that keep adding up only to realize that they weren't ever part of the equation in the first place. How you weren't there to teach him how to field-strip a weapon. How to rock out to Zeppelin before he got exposed to lyrics rhyming with "izzle." How to hold his fucking liquor; how to grill a burger so juicy it melts in your mouth. How to drive like there's no tomorrow.

And when he starts tying up those loose ends, you get the feeling like yours are unraveling. Do you even really know the guy? Did you ever really know him? You mean, you do, but… _do_ you?

Fuck, why does this bother you so much?

You cross your arms and lean against the desk, scuffing your shoe against the floor. "I 'member showing Sammy how to stitch himself up. Dumb kid wouldn't stop pickin' at it and got it infected, and then I had to show him how to take care of that, too."

"You taught him well."

The laugh you let out guts you more than it fills you up. Yeah. You remember when Cas said you'd be a great teacher to him, too.

"Is everything all right?" It doesn't hit you that you've completely spaced out till you stiffen at the nudge of his elbow. "You seem…distracted lately."

"No, I, uh…" Your hand paws at the back of your hair. Christ, if there was ever a loaded question. "You know…maybe one of these days, we should do something. Something you've never done before."

His head tilts. "Like what?"

"I don't know; what haven't you done before?"

It takes so long for him to respond, it's like you can see the damn loading screen when he thinks. "Taxes."

While you're at it, maybe you should file for workers' comp for all the goddamn strain from rolling your eyes.

"We are not doing taxes together, Cas"—not to mention it spirals you off into a whole 'nother train of thought you're not even remotely comfortable with—"I'm talking about something _fun._ " If that's even in the dude's vocabulary. And he figures teaching poetry to fish is hard.

Wait—that ain't a half-bad idea. Minus the poetry crap.

"I know." You slap your knee. "I'll take you fishing. Kick back, have a few brewskies, some real peace and quiet for once. Perfect, right?"

"I'd like that."

He smiles, and there's crinkles you don't remember seeing before; knots in your stomach that you don't remember feeling before. Worst part is, you don't even care that your heart's about to puke out your throat.

Because for the first time in…fuck, _ever…_ you actually hope there'll be a tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drive the boys make up Highway 1 really is a magnificent sight, so if you ever make it out to Cali, I strongly suggest doing your own scenic tour of the Big Sur area. In fact, I loved Big Sur so much, I've occasionally entertained the idea of writing Destiel fic that largely takes place there, wherein Cas is a nomadic writer of a bohemian nature (basically his end!verse personality but without all the doom and gloom) and Dean takes a trip out there to clear his head…you can probably figure out the rest. Of course, I'm probably not even a third of the way through this fic, so I don't even know why I'm thinking about writing another novel. Ugh, fuck these two for being so perfect together in any universe.
> 
> Also, this was my first time writing a major action scene, especially with a high-speed car chase. Hopefully it wasn't too terrible. I had a lot of fun with it, though, and I honestly don't understand why more people haven't written them. The potential for old married couple!DeanCas banter? Goldmine.
> 
> Disclaimer: This may be a given, but I absolutely do not recommend treating a bullet wound in the manner mentioned in this chapter—leave that to a medical professional. There are probably all sorts of things wrong with it, but I went with the way that it probably would be handled in the actual show. Media tends to fudge these things for dramatic effect.


	9. Dude, Interrupted

Once you sit Frank's ass down, Sam wants to take the diplomatic route. Your fist doesn't agree.

Oh, you'll let him have it his way first. Keep your distance while he tries to rattle Frank with the twenty questions. But after ten minutes of the dick being all coat and no sport in that two-tone jacket of his, "diplomatic" doesn't get you bupkis. Color you surprised.

That color turns a few shades redder when he tells you how heaven wouldn't be in the sorry shape it is if your mom hadn't popped you out after whoring it up with Yellow Eyes.

Nothing satisfies you more than the crack of his nose against your knuckles.

"Hey! _Hey!_ " Sam tears you away just as you're about to clock him again to make sure the first one stuck. "Cool it, okay? I need you to keep your head. And lately, that kind of means literally." The hand that isn't squeezing your shoulder gestures towards the door. Is he kicking you out? "You wanna blow off some steam, go…find a crowbar and smack the shit out of some boxes or something."

He's kicking you out.

Fine. Whatever. He'll be back when he gets it through that thick head of his that no level of finessin' is gonna jam that square peg through a round hole.

After you've worked out the kink in your neck and put things on a nice low simmer, you wander past the office and overhear Sam talking to Cas. You pause at the door when your brother raises his voice.

"Apply some pressure? You mean let Dean torture him."

"He does have a…certain skillset."

"Seriously. _Seriously?_ " You can't see it, but you bet Sam's got the bitchface on overdrive. "You're just gonna…drop the drunk off at the liquor store and let him have at it? After everything he's been through?"

Hey, c'mon. Functional alcoholic.

"I realize this may seem like a huge risk, but Sam…this may help him regain his memories."

"Have you seen the guy recently? I don't know what's going on with him, but his head spins so far off the map sometimes, _I'm_ reeling. This isn't a risk, Cas; this is basically a guarantee that something— _something's_ gonna break. What if this is just like the wall in my head? You were listening, right? When I told you about that…that _thing_ the Mark was turning my brother into?"

Even though there's nothing there, you feel a faint pulse thrumming through your forearm. Like maybe some kinda phantom scar syndrome. But Cas…he said he nuked it. Right?

You swallow the thought back down and chalk it up to imagination. Not that you don't still find yourself rubbing your sleeve.

"Is that really something you want to let loose? Is triggering his memory really more important than his well-being?"

Cas doesn't say nothin' right away, but when he does, it sounds like he's clenching his teeth. "I know you don't see it, Sam, but this _is_ for his well-being."

"How? How could this possibly be good?"

"He needs to remember. If Dean doesn't—"

Oh, for the love of…yeah, you're putting an end to this. "You can quit your bitching 'cause I'm doing it."

Sam's eyes widen as you shuffle into the room. "Dean—"

"Discussion closed." You swipe the weapons bag, and you don't need to glance behind you to know that he's in one of his hissy fits, nose flares the size of bazookas. Luckily, he's smart enough to keep his cakehole shut. To your face, anyway.

"We'll monitor him closely," you hear Cas whisper when the three of you head for the sigil holding Frank custody. "If it starts to get out of hand, we'll stop it."

"You mean _I_ will, Gimpy."

Ugh, you hate it when Mom and Dad fight. "Fuck's sake, I'm right here. Don't talk about me like I'm your damn problem child. The Mark's gone; I don't need a friggin' chaperone."

Cas tells you he recognizes the angel in Frank's meatsuit and rambles off some name that sounds like Quetzalcoatl or Ramalamadingdong. You'll just stick with Frank, thanks. You chuck the duffle onto a crate and shuck the jacket; have yourself a little snicker over the bleeder you gave 'im earlier. It'd be a real pity to get stains on a shirt you starched and ironed yourself, so you forgo the fisticuffs and pull out the trusty ol' angel blade. Basic, maybe a little overpowered, but you go it slow, and it'll do the trick.

Twisting the blade in your palm, you admire the length, the glint off the tip that matches the flare of somethin' primal in his eyes as you move towards him. You take your sweet time pacing your footsteps, letting him contemplate with every thud all the things you might—scratch that; _will—_ do to him. "We're gonna do this a little differently now."

He straightens up in his chair. Yeah. Keep that stiff upper lip. "How predictable. You humans think you can solve anything with brute force."

"If it ain't broke."

The bastard sneers at you. "That's not what I see."

It hits you in the back of your throat, the way he's ogling you from head to toe, but you choke it down and harden your jaw. "Here's how this is gonna go." You hunch down, one hand on your thigh while the other feels the weight of the blade in your hand. "I can think of about fifty places off the top of my head where I'd really like to stick this right now. Every time you don't answer, I pick a new place. We understand each other?"

He stares you down and steels his trap, but the bob in his throat don't go unnoticed.

Funny how he ain't so tough when you slice his arm clean open.

You ignore his wailin', digging that pointy end in right about where Cas got shot. You've never been much with the frilly words, but you wouldn't mind considering yourself a man of poetic justice. "That was the first question, asswipe! Bottom of the class already." You clamp your hands down on either side of him and look 'im square in the eye. "Do we understand each other?"

He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, scowling at you. "Yes."

"Good. Quick learner. Here's the second." You push away, thumbing your nose down at him. "Why's your boss all interested in some stuffy old bookworm? More importantly, what's so interesting 'bout him that he gets roasted for it? That was you, right? In the alley before the cops found Walsh's body?"

"Walsh was…a liability. A demon got a hold of him before we were able to uncover what we needed. He had to be dealt with."

"So you screw the pooch, and he pays for it. What about the missus?"

His eyes briefly switch from you to Cas. "I believe the term you use is 'collateral damage.'"

You would've missed it if you blinked, but something in Cas' expression wavers. These two got beef with each other?

Whatever it is, you put it on the backburner for now. "What's got Bart's panties all up in a twist, anyway? What's he after?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Hmph." You press your lips together, eyeballing the angel blade. "You wanna rethink your answer before you earn yourself a strike two?"

When he doesn't make a peep after three seconds, you figure any longer's bein' too generous.

After four seconds, he's squealing like a pig.

"I don't know what Bartholomew is after!" The corner of your mouth twitches as you skewer that sucker deep in the thigh, watching his head lurch back with a scream. "I was only supposed to find their location!"

You jerk your wrist and yank the blade out. Okay, consider your curiosity piqued. "Location? Their?"

"They call themselves the Knights of the Black Lodge," he spews out, trying to catch his breath. "A secret society that claimed to have roots in the Knights Templar order. Their faction reputedly sought recognition from other Masonic lodges, but they were rejected for their unorthodox beliefs." Masonic? Score one for Sammy. "We thought their members had died out, but as I understand it, there have been…whispers of new activity. We suspected Walsh to be a recent initiate and thought we could infiltrate by learning what he knew, but the demon foiled our plans."

"Unorthodox? Meaning?"

He's throwing daggers at you with that look. "You do know what a dictionary is, yes? Or is it too much of me to assume that your civilization has surmounted illiteracy?"

Got yourself a real wise guy, huh? He's in for a lesson of his own, but before you can teach him something about gettin' lippy, he turns his head towards Cas. "You should have left him down there! You've merely postponed the inevitable."

Your stomach drops out, fingers tightening around the hilt. You peek over at Cas, but he ain't meeting you halfway.

"How does it feel, Castiel? To reduce yourself to the ranks of this—this sniveling _larva?_ To realize you are nothing more than an absolute, wretched _failure?_ "

And that's when you snap.

You knock him ass over teakettle, slamming that dickwad so hard on concrete you hope it breaks his spine. But when you shove your blade up against his throat, you're socked with a bad case of déjà vu, scrambling your eggs with flashes of a woman. Dark hair. White lab coat. Begging for her life.

A spike in your blood as it surges to the crook of your arm.

"Listen here, Chuckles! The only one who's flunking the test is you, so you better give me a damn good reason why I shouldn't stab you in the eye right now!"

"I—I have no idea why they were of importance to Bartholomew! That's the purpose of a secret society. It's secret!"

"Wrong answer!"

You drag the tip of your blade across his jawline, and you don't even get to slice up a piece of heaven before he's a fucking blubbering mess. "I swear! Please, I swear that's all I know! My only directive was to track them down and report in to Bartholomew, and thanks to you three—" Sounds like he's about to call you every name in the book, but he cuts himself off. Smart move. "You've eliminated my only hope of finding them!"

Buzz Cut and Beer Gut. Right. "You mean your frat party over at the church. Who were they?"

"Dennis Young and Mikey McDonald. I overheard talks of Walsh extending them an invite."

"And why…" you carve him a pretty little keepsake into his cheek, something you hope he'll cherish almost as much as you do, "…should we believe you?"

"Dean! Let him go. McDonald was the name on the ID from the wallet you took earlier."

Cas lays a palm on you, and you shudder at the touch.

Suddenly, it's like you've forgotten where you are.

You glance down at your hands. You can smell the stench of death on them, the years of rage gnarling them beyond recognition. And fuck… _fuck,_ there's so much blood. _Why is there so much—_

" _Dean!_ "

—and then nothing at all.

You shake yourself free of it, shoving fistfuls of coat at Frank as you get back up on your own two feet. "You're lucky your story checks out." You flip him right side up as Sam fixes the breaches in the paint. What can you say—you're struck with a bit of charity when you see the stink eye's Sam's giving you. Guess that means it's time to take it back down a notch.

"So why the whole lawyer routine?" you ask. "Thought angels were more about the fire and brimstone than due process."

He hesitates, probably still woozy from the head rush. "Frank was at a breaking point in his life. His career was in shambles; his wife on the verge of leaving him. He needed direction. I granted him revelation."

"Yeah, and I'm friggin' Gandhi." It'd almost be amusing how quick he cowers soon as you close even an inch between you two. If it ain't so pathetic. "We know about the drug raids, Matlock. The junkies, the ones who couldn't afford someone to go to bat for them. And how you swooped in to save the day. Bang-up job you did there, sending each and every one of them straight to lockup. Unless that was the goal all along."

He squirms in his seat under the glare you got dead set on him. "It was imperative that they lose. That's all I was told—nothing more."

"And we're just supposed to take your word for it?"

"How many times must I repeat myself?" He's working his eyes on Cas now. Like copping a goddamn plea's gonna help. "You know this, Castiel! We follow orders on a strictly need-to-know basis; that's what we were built for! We're soldiers. We were never meant for anything more than that. But you… _you_ couldn't resist that shiny red apple, could you?"

Cas bites at his lip, hugging his arm. Stares off into space like you're not even there.

Things humans do when they're holding out on you.

"Was it worth it?" Frank says, and you feel your heart skip a beat. "All that carnal knowledge festering within you? Gnawing away at the very core of who you once were?"

It's pure business, you snapping your fingers in Frank's face so that he jolts back to attention. Nothing to do with you not wanting to hear Cas spill the truth.

Or worse: that he's got nothin' to spill at all.

"Hey, this isn't about him, asshat! This is about you and how all you're giving me is a bunch of yadda slash nada, and I'm gettin' real sick of the broken record act. You know what we do with broken records?"

You make sure he's watching when you pick up a rotted two-by-four and bust it over your knee. Oh, nice. His vessel even pees a little.

"It's already gone," he blurts out, eyes darting back and forth. "I burned it. But I…I remember what it said."

That's more like it. "What _what_ said?"

"I had approached Bartholomew to brief him on my progress, but he had other immediate affairs to attend. He was running low on time and asked me to…dispose of something for him."

"Bart trusted someone like you with intel?"

"It was one document. A telegram, actually."

"Tell me you at least kept the stripper."

"Not that kind of telegram, Dean," your moose for a brother groans.

"What?" Frank shakes his head. "No. There were no harlots involved." Too bad. "The message was only five words long."

What comes outta his mouth next makes your neck bristle, that prickly feeling clawing its fingers all over you.

"'Winchester is on his way.'"

Both Cas and Sam share your sentiments, slack-jawed and speechless.

"That's it? That's all it said?"

"Yes."

"So basically, you've told us you're completely useless to us now. Course, we're on our damn way. We're here, you dipshit!"

His eyes bug out as you reach for the blade again. "Wait, no—there's…there's one more thing. A name. Who the telegram was from."

You throw your arms up at him. "Well? If I wanted suspense, I'd put a rat puppet on your dick and stick it in a snake cage."

"M-Magnus," he finally says. "It…it was signed by Magnus."

Men of Letters? How the hell do they know about this?

How do they know about _you?_

"I…I know who that is. I can take you to him if you let me go."

You lick at your lips and snort. "Magnus? As in Albert Magnus?"

Frank's face gets so pasty, you think he might collapse into a puddle of goop.

"Sorry, but no cigar. We know that's just a code name." As you move in on him, your free hand strokes at your chin, twirling the blade in your other. "So. Humor us. Why do we still need you?"

You circle him, his heated gaze trained on you. He sounds calm now. Keeps his voice low. Like someone who knows it's game over. "I was there when Castiel murdered Bartholomew. Our _brother._ And for a time, I honestly believed that Castiel was exactly what we needed. I vowed to stand behind him. But what a fool I was."

"No, see," you shake a finger at him, "that's where you're wrong. Cas only wanted to help you dickbags fly on home. He wanted to end your stupid turf war. Bartholomew's the douche that'll screw you over if you don't play by his rules."

"Help? You think _Bartholomew's_ the one who, as you so crudely put it, screwed us over? Castiel doesn't care about any of us! He acted all pious, pretended to humble himself, but his true loyalties were always with you. Ever since he pulled you out of that fetid pit."

Yeah, no, not letting this princess go on another one of his tirades. "All right, enough—"

"Even when you came blustering in and showed us nothing but contempt, even when you killed Tessa, even when your actions demanded retribution…Castiel chose to pardon you over his own brethren!"

You freeze.

Tessa? The reaper?

You raise an eyebrow at Cas, your throat closing up the moment his eyes pass over you. Something starts to tremble deep in your bones again.

"You… _you!_ A mindless, bottom-feeding tick who delights in spreading your disease to anyone you can sink your meat hooks into!"

The dick spits in your face, and as you wipe his slobber from the curl of your mouth, you feel the tingle at the base of your spine; the ringing in your ears; the swell in your veins that roils into a violent throbbing, a murderous chant.

If he wants the straw that broke the camel's back, he's got it.

"You don't deserve hi—"

The blade sings as it plunges into his chest, the blood rush firing off every nerve in your body till you're seeing the dark side of the moon.

And then comes the nasty kickback.

_"I have never been that damn low."_

She calls it hope. You call it just plain batty.

_"He gave me a reason to die."_

You don't know if the gasp is hers or yours when she knifes herself.

_"Punish him!"_

A wrist drops to his side, the blade clanging onto the floor.

_"No."_

He should've stopped you while he had the chance.

_"I just can't take the screaming."_

A howl echoes somewhere in the depths of your mind, the pain—oh, God, the fucking _pain—_ hollowing you out and leaving you all frayed ends and raw edges.

Till finally, there's nothing but black.

*****

You wake up to a bitch of an ache in your jaw, feeling soggy with the drool and blood pooled underneath your cheek. Something nudges at your shoulder. "Dean…"

You tip your head in the direction of the voice, all rasp but none of the grit, blinking up at the fuzzy figure hovering over you. A halo rings his head; the light so goddamn bright, it stings. "Cas?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"Am I…is this heaven?"

"No."

Grunting as he helps you prop yourself up against the wall, you realize you're still in the old factory. Frank's body limp as a noodle; bits of him stuck to the angel blade at his feet. Cas still missing half a shirt; the bandage snug around his arm. And maybe things're still hazy all up in your brain, but you think you sense a thumb rubbing the crease in your elbow, his hand shifting into idle gear as it just… _lingers_ there.

You close your eyes. You dunno why you can't bring yourself to say anything. Maybe 'cause you're tired and you don't give a shit and you'd rather write it off as him being weird again.

'Cept it don't feel that weird.

"Where's Sam?" you eventually croak out.

"He went to find you some smelling salts."

Your head rolls towards him, trying to straighten up. "How long was I out? Longer than the others?"

He nods, chin down. "Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes."

"So they're getting worse."

You're guessing his lack of a response is as good of a yea as any. "Your brother barely lasted five. He…wasn't very happy that I suggested you do the torturing."

"If it makes you feel any better, he's gonna ream me a new one, too."

"Why would that make me feel better?"

You don't even bother with the eye roll. "Never mind."

But seeing his face scrunch up like that again, a reminder of how things were before it all got so damn complicated—before _this_ got so damn complicated—well…

It's enough to make you feel a little better, at least.

Any inkling of a smile don't last long, though, working your fingers to pop the button on your cuff and tug up your sleeve. Not so much as a scratch in sight. Maybe it should be some kinda relief, but it doesn't make you breathe any easier; doesn't lift that vice slowly closing in on your chest.

Has it really just been you the whole time? The anger? The hatred? The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad… _evil_ inside of you?

It's a bigger question than you can swallow, but that don't stop you from poking at it all the same. "Why did you let me torture him?"

Cas sighs like he's a million miles away. Like he's always been. "It was risky, I know, but…I thought it would help trigger more memories." He scooches closer. "Did it?"

You don't know how many minutes slip by, how many of those memories blur past like one big fucking kaleidoscope of death. Kevin, Tessa…who the hell knows how many others you killed while under the Mark's influence. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. Your number should've been up a long time ago, and as much as you hated those holier-than-thou dicks, they had you pinned fair and square. And the ultimatum that Hannah chick gave Cas? After everything you'd done? No question that your sorry ass deserved it.

You don't know why it was so out of the question for him.

And then you notice the hand still squeezing you.

"Cas…" The way his name fits between the teeth is somethin' funny. Like there's a whole mess of things you don't even know how to begin to put together. "I gotta ask you something."

"What?"

"Why'd you do it? Spare me when you had an entire army backing you? I mean, they could've meant the difference in kicking Metatron's ass once and for all. And I…I was outta control, man. For all you knew, I could have killed Tessa. I should've…" You shake your head, choking down the upchuck. "Stupidest friggin' thing you've ever done, man."

"I beg to differ." He pauses, like he gets stuck in his head for a moment. "Do you remember Ephraim?"

"Who? The…the Grim Angel? George Michael with the ugly-ass truck?"

His brow pinches together. "I don't believe he had an affinity for eighties pop music, but he was the one who claimed to euthanize victims of emotional distress, yes. I was lucky enough to escape with a few broken bones, but the pain…was no less excruciating."

"Not to, y'know, downplay your suffering or anything, but what's that got to do with anything?"

"The crypt," he says, and he's breathing heavier now, gripping tighter. "I…inflicted that same kind of pain on you and so much worse. I was supposed to be your guardian; I was supposed to _protect_ you."

"That wasn't you. That was Naomi pulling your strings—"

"And Hannah was asking me to do it again."

The back of your jaw flexes as you look away. "Don't matter. You shoulda let me take the brunt of it, Cas. I'm still…" you wince, hoping he didn't catch the crack in your voice, "…I'm still just one guy."

The lump in your throat hardens when his words go soft. "No. You're not."

"Th'hell's that even supposed to—"

"Oh, thank God!"

Your head jerks at the scuffle of footsteps, brushing Cas off of you as you scramble to your feet. "Sam! We were just…uh—"

"So you're, y'know, okay? Back to normal? Well, not 'normal,' but…" Jeez, thanks, Sammy. Why doesn't he just tell you you'd be better off in a lab as some scientist's pet? "Christ, I thought for sure we were gonna have to call an ambulance! Only reason I didn't was because we're stuck in 1947—which is still your stupid-ass idea, by the way—and, well, we'd just _killed_ a guy—"

You clap a hand on his shoulder. "Sammy, I'm fine. You can relax."

"Relax? You want me to relax? After _that?_ "

"Hey, let's keep the number of people with high blood pressure here to one, okay?" You give his shoulder a good, firm shake. "Don't you go poppin' something, too."

He huffs at you, stomps around for another second or two, then gestures towards Cas. "Did it even work? The… _Total Recall_ thing?"

"Well, I didn't wake up next to DiCaprio in a lighthouse, so…that's a plus."

"Dean seems to have regained most of his memories. I'm not sure about those regarding Metatron, however," Cas says, studying you in a manner that borders on creepy. "Do you remember anything that involves your confrontation with him?"

You shrug. "I got squat. Not really ringing in at number one priority, though, 'cause apparently, we got the makings of the freakin' _Da Vinci Code_ on our hands. Men of Letters working with the God Squad? How could they possibly know we were coming after them?" You stick a tongue in your cheek, racking your brain for anything that might make a lick of sense outta this. Cas' theory about this being some sorta trap is looking more and more on the nose.

"I don't like where this is headed." Captain Obvious strikes again. "Dean, we need to get you and Sam back home immediately."

"You serious?" Dumb question; when is he ever _not_ serious? "And let Bart succeed? Besides, if he's on our heels, what's to stop him from quantum leaping back to the twenty-first century?"

"Our," Sam pipes up. "You said 'our heels.'"

"Yeah, so?"

"But the telegram from Magnus said 'on _his_ way.' As in singular."

"So they're only tailing one of us." You poke at Cas. "Is this what you were talking about earlier? In my dream? When you said not to come looking for you 'cause you're the bait? Cas, if you know anything about this setup, you better spill it now."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I wish I…I wish I knew." Then, under his breath: "I wish I'd known a lot of things."

Before you can ask him the fuck that means, Sam's got a light bulb. "Wait, you think…Henry has something to do with this?"

Huh. Didn't consider that. "Maybe, but is he even a Man of Letters at this point? He wasn't initiated until '58. That's eleven whole years from now. Plus, he's out in some bumfuck town in Illinois. What would he be doing here in Cali?"

"I don't know. Guess we better start looking for some answers."

You go to take a leak and come back to find Cas and Sam packing up, all hush-hush and sneaking glances in your direction. Wow. Real subtle, guys. But when you feel like you could swallow an entire bottle of aspirin and not make a dent in your wallop of a headache, you're in no mood to pick fights.

You shuffle over to Sam, tossing him the angel blade to stuff back in the sack. "Surprised you're not throwing in the towel."

"Believe me, I'm tempted to. I mean, you're scaring the shit out of me, Dean. But whatever Bart's planning, it's probably not the safest bet that there'll even be a future to return to at this point. So…" He zips up the duffle, hesitating as he bumps his fist against the door jamb. "I'm with you. For better or worse, right?"

Your brother shoots you a half-smile, and you feel your shoulders ease back. "You're on board with this?"

"Yeah. Much as I can be. Just…take it easy on yourself. Please? Future's not gonna mean much if you're not a part of it."

You purse your lips. Not 'cause you're hiding a grin or nothin'. "Yeah, yeah, I'll lay off the angel voodoo."

"Actually…" He scratches at his ear. "Cas mentioned you wanted to take him fishing."

God, not this jealousy crap again. "You can come, too, Sammy. Not trying to exclude you."

"No, I…it's a good idea. I think you two should go for it. And I'll…look into this whole Knights of the Black Lodge thing. Maybe, you know." He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking forward on his toes. "Figure out if those guys left behind any clues at the historical society. There's gotta be some library around here that knows something about something."

Un-freaking-believable. "You benchin' me, Sam?"

"You really protesting not having to do research? The only decent leads we had are dead, so that pretty much means hitting the books for now."

"No, I just don't appreciate being benched; that's all!"

"Dean, a few days ago, you were still in the hospital. After today, it's pretty damn obvious you shouldn't be exerting yourself so much yet."

And you really wish he wouldn't be "exerting" that huge fucking sigh at you.

He swipes a hand through his hair. What's left of it. "Look, it's only temporary, okay? I told you: I'm with you. But I can't go into it without you being at a hundred percent. Or, you know, your usual sixty percent pig-headed determination and forty percent liquor-fueled wit."

"Sam—"

"All I'm asking is that you take some time off tomorrow, we'll meet up afterwards, and we'll go from there, all right?"

No, _not_ all right. But if Sam has a bug up his butt about this, there's no way you're getting him to back down, and frankly, you don't got the energy to deal with this bullshit. So you tell 'im, fine. You'll sit around with your thumb up your ass for a day. Happy?

The three of you clear outta there, hotwiring the powder blue Pontiac in the neighboring parking lot and taking Frank's body with you for a proper sendoff. Dude looks like he could use more iodine in his diet, anyway. After you cross that off the list, you end up heading north to San Francisco. Not so much because you've got an itch for touristy crap, but because Sam finds a business card in Mikey's wallet with the address for the California Historical Society. Not the same one that Walsh was a member of—he's SoCal territory—but Sam figures you might as well swing by to see if you can dig up a lead when it's only two clicks away. Golden City, it is.

He also makes a pretty impressive argument for letting him drive: "I'll sit on you if you don't."

Normally, you don't mind when the dial's cranked up so people clam up—hell, you prefer it—but tonight's a dangerous night to be left to your own thoughts, especially when they begin to drift back to what Cas said. Or what he didn't say, actually. It leaves a real bad taste in your mouth, how you screwed up; how you kept asking him to do things you never should've asked. And even when you stopped asking, when you just took and took, over and over again, he still gave it up. He gave…fuck, he gave _everything._

Even when you got nothin'.

Dammit, you never wanted…why'd he…?

After all that, he still…the dumbass _still_ chose the guy on Biblical steroids over his angel army. The guy who had every reason to be locked up with the key tossed into some infernal abyss, your ass along with it.

He chose…

_Fuck._

You wet your lips, catching a glimpse of Cas in the side mirror. You're not fooling yourself into thinking it'll be any sorta compensation. More like comparing beans to gold.

But fishing…yeah. Okay.

Maybe it's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you are _Twin Peaks_ fans, yes, the Black Lodge reference is a nod to that show (and no, I'm still not over that cliffhanger ending). On that note, someone should really write an _Supernatural/Twin Peaks_ crossover because I'm actually quite miffed that in all the ten years the show's been on the air, _Supernatural_ hasn't once made a reference to it. NOT EVEN THE PIE COME ON. And I'm 100% sure that Cas and Coop would be the bestest of buds and totally geek out over bees and flora and ducks on a lake.
> 
> "Dean, why is that man always talking into that small black box and calling it Diane?"
> 
> "I don't know, Cas, but it's hella creepy."
> 
> I really need to stop coming up with new fic ideas…


	10. Gone Wishin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up splitting this into two chapters because what I originally planned for was turning into a monster. So sorry that this one is a bit shorter, but the majority of the next chapter is written already; I just need to flesh some things out. Decided to not let that hold up the part that was already done. :)

When Sam told you to relax, you thought that meant, you know. Relaxing. Not spending nearly an hour—on not nearly enough caffeine—trying to find some remote-ass lake out in the Californian boondocks.

And by trying, you mean failing.

It started out simple enough, as most things do. You and Cas headed down to the bait shop after daybreak; picked up a couple of cheap poles, case of beer, and some fresh peaches Cas was droolin' over. Said the fuzz got 'im all nostalgic. Yeah, you still remember the Snapchat he sent you. Weirdo.

Drive was all smooth sailing, too. Maybe foggier than you'd like, but seeing the sun peep out over the pea soup as you cruised along the Golden Gate Bridge—well, it made you understand why people take pictures of that shit.

Too bad you couldn't enjoy it for long. Even though the weather had shaped up by the time you scoped out a place to park, you wound up doing nothing but circles around this Tolkien nightmare. Damn trees. Look all the same. And hiking? People actually do that crap for _fun?_ It's not like you're outta shape, course—love handles don't have much hope of creepin' up on you when you work a beat like yours—but you're no _Six Million Dollar Man_ like your brother when he throws on the tracksuit. Plus, you're stuck lugging most of the load 'cause of Cas' bum shoulder. Dammit, Cas; why'd he have to buy so many of these stupid peaches, anyway?

'Cause you'd really like to keep your arm, you're about to tell him you're dumping the fruit when he stops at the edge of a clearing. "There. Bon Tempe Lake."

"Sweet baby Jesus," you wheeze, like it's the last goddamn breath you'll ever take. "That better not be a mirage."

Cas narrows his eyes at you. "This isn't a desert."

You'd roll your own, but you doubt you got any strength left. "Thank you, _National Geographic._ I hadn't noticed _all the friggin' wood._ "

The guy brushes you off, taking in a deep breath of that mountain-y air as he glances out over the water. Least one of you seems to be pleased as punch about the whole idea, and considering he's the reason you suggested it in the first place, guess that alone means it's worth it.

Even though you haven't run into one single soul since you got here, apparently, Cas wants to go for total seclusion, picking a spot on a tiny little peninsula that juts out into the lake. You're just happy to get the feeling back in your legs, so you set up camp, opening up the bucket of live bait and teaching him how to hook one of those squirmy suckers. It's slow going at first, giving Cas a crash course in fishing. How the dude manages to turn everything into a fiasco shouldn't even surprise you anymore, but you honestly don't know what to do except stand there and stare for a solid two minutes when he gets his line all tangled up in the tree branches. Behind him.

"You know it's the big blue wet thing you're aiming for, right?"

You're gonna need a miracle in order to make it out of here without losing any body parts.

There's also the bit where a hands-on demonstration requires way more physical contact than you signed up for. Yeah, did not fucking think _that_ one through, and you're tripping all over each other just to get Cas to hold the damn rod correctly. But once you wrangle him in, your chin over his shoulder as you reach around and grip his hands to show him the proper motions, he seems to loosen up and ease into you. And as you watch him finally nail that perfect cast, it's not until he speaks up that you realize you forgot to remove the training wheels.

"Dean, you can let go now."

He don't need to tell you twice. "Yeah," you clear your throat, dusting off dirt that's more invisible than not, "okay."

You, uh. Expected that to feel a lot more uncomfortable than it did.

Worrying over your own fishing pole is beginning to sound like the best freaking plan you've had all morning, so you uncap a beer, put a healthy ten feet between you two, and sink your line in the opposite direction. Not that it stops you from peering back over at him every so often. And no, it's not like you're fixin' your eyes on him or nothin'. You're just, y'know, checking that he didn't get yanked in by some ornery trout. 'Cause, y'know. _Not_ drowning's preferable.

Though if you keep talking to yourself like this, you're gonna wish you were.

You roll your shoulders, letting out the air in your lungs and hoping the tension goes right along with it. Seeing as that's the whole point of this "relaxing" thing. You are relaxed. You are _so_ relaxed. You're the _king_ of relaxed. Maybe a little cold, though. Is it cold? Or maybe you need to drink more beer. There you go; two birds with one stone. One stone, two birds. Wait, no…one _beer,_ two...

Did you mention you're relaxed?

Cas must've noticed you rubbing the goose bumps on your arm. "I brought an extra sweater."

"It's the Sunshine State; I'm fine," you mutter more like a grumble than you mean to.

"We're in California, Dean. 'The Sunshine State' is Florida's nickname."

So you didn't pay enough attention in second grade geography. Least you're not a geek like your brother who still has that song about the fifty states memorized—and oh, great. Now the tune's stuck in your head.

You snort under your breath, eyeing the old man cardigan he's sporting. "If that's what the dress code is, might as well be in Florida. Who you tryin' to impress? Mr. Rogers?"

He gets all huffy. "Fine. I offered."

There's a joke on deck about rocking chairs and Metamucil, but you let it slide. All right, so the sweater's not that bad. Wool looks scratchy as hell, but you guess the blue's a…well, it works. For him. Y'know, 'cause the nerdy and the eyes and the…

It's…something. Nothing. Whatever.

In any case, you could really use a subject change. You nod in the direction of some big-ass hills. "So what's that area over there?"

"Mount Tamalpais."

"Huh." You swallow another swig of your beer, the sun's haze settling over the ridge as you soak in all the motherfucking nature around you. You'll give it to the big man for that, anyway; he's a hell of an artist. Which explains a lot, really, if the other bum artists you've had the not pleasure of meeting are anything to go by. "Kinda pretty, ain't it?"

Cas makes some sorta noise like he takes that personally. "I didn't think you had an appreciation for the aesthetic." He hunches down to inspect one of his peaches, rolling it in his palm as he deadpans, "Unless it was sitting on your face."

You nearly spurt out your drink. Whoa, hey now, that burn was completely…impressive, to be honest. Can't believe you're saying this, but you've missed that sarcastic little shit side of Cas. "Come on; I can appreciate things in a non-sexy way." You lift up your bottle. "I appreciate this beer. I appreciate bein' out where there's no one to piss me off. And hell, I'll even appreciate your damn peaches." You reach down and pluck one up for yourself.

Actually, these're pretty tasty.

"I'm referring to aesthetic beauty, not creature comforts. Of those, I'm well aware." He chomps down on his own piece of fruit, and your eyes flick to where he licks his lips, trying to get at a bit of juice dribble.

That's a little too much aesthetic for you.

You're fumbling for words, ignoring how your cheeks are burning hot enough to put Rudolph outta business. "Oh, and…and you know me so well?"

He takes his sweet time answering, though whether he's savoring the peach or the silence more, you don't know. "Enough to know that you sometimes overlook the obvious," he eventually says. "It's not your fault. The human perspective is limited. Though perhaps it is a blessing as much as it is a flaw."

You cough out what maybe sounds like a chuckle, but it ain't the funny kind. Before you have a mind to ask him exactly what that's s'posed to mean, he adds, "Truthfully, I envy you for it."

And there's that fucking gaze he lays on you again—the one that reminds you of moons and pizza pies and gets you all itchy around the collar; the sorta thing that might even make you say some stupid crap like how that geezer sweater of his does a real swell job of bringing out the blue in his eyes. If he were a chick. Which he is so, _so_ not.

The fuck is up with you, man? You came out here to take it easy, keep it light, and instead, you're getting your wires crossed over…over abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Jesus. You don't stick to plan, you won't even wait for Sam; you'll just kick your own ass.

So you deal with the awkward like you always do: good ol' self-deprecating humor. "Need practice, is all. I go by the two-step program: grab a fistful of singles and wash it down with a few shots of Jimmy Beam. Then you'll be a real boy like the rest of us poor bastards."

You figure Cas is gonna be shooting you a straight blank, but he shakes his head and…hell, he actually _laughs._ Big white pearly smile and everything. God, he has nice teeth—and God, you're being _weird._ Gut's doing this not entirely unwelcome flippy thing that…

Shit. Maybe it's not the fishing line you need to be careful about getting all twisted up.

You can't trust yourself not to blab a whole bunch of idiot the next time you open your mouth—and no, you're not gonna touch the implications of that with a ten-foot pole—so you zip it shut. Thankfully, save for a bout of excitement when you help Cas reel in his first catch, the rest of the morning slips by blissfully undisturbed. Peaceful, even. The sun's finally warming you up, a slight breeze keeping you cool, and you swear you hear someone whistling the theme to _Andy Griffith._

It's been too long, you know? Not having some kinda major snafu to clean up. So long that a snafu _is_ "situation normal" for you. But this, where there's no more of a fuss than the occasional ripple in the water….yeah, you could get used to this. Seems like Cas agrees; he's got that look of perpetual content you've only seen when…well, maybe never. Two peas in a pod, you guess.

Sure feels good. Real good. Not needing to say one damn word, and Cas just gets it; knows that sometimes there's more worth in what you don't say than you do.

And yeah. There's something you can appreciate.

He leans over a while later. "I see why you always retreated to a place like this in your dreams."

"Yep." You stretch your arms above your head, and ooh, yeah, that hits the spot. "Away from responsibilities, dickbag angels…whatever fresh new hell's in store for us next. Away from…shit, everything."

"You don't really allow yourself the time to relax."

"Christ, Sam tell you to get on my case, too?"

"No. It's only an observation."

Cloud cover passes over you, but you find yourself squinting off into the distance, anyway. "Relax means quiet. Quiet means…not quiet."

"You mean your thoughts," he says after a moment. "They aren't quiet."

You wet your throat. "Something like that."

"What's different about this?"

"This?" You glance up at him, and you almost forget to finish your sentence. "This kind of quiet, I can dig. All about completely emptying the mind, being…one with nature but without the hippie crud."

"It's your version of meditation."

"Guess so. This is pretty much as close as it gets to actual nirvana for me." You throw him a wink. "'Less you count the seven minutes in heaven sort."

His brow gets all bunchy. "Considering that Metatron's cast every angel out, I doubt heaven is in any state of paradise right now."

"I'd say you missed out on middle school, but I _went_ to middle school. Well, parts of it."

"Oh, you mean…"

You chuckle when he stares down at his shoes, pawing at the back of his neck. "Little flushed there, Cas?" Glad it ain't you this time.

It's not the only thing amusing you, though. Been forever and a day since Cas snuck into your matrix and hijacked your dream out on that dock. Dude turned your entire world upside down just by flapping into existence.

But now, it's like you can't ever remember it not being like this.

Luck's on your side when you snag a couple more bites on the line. Between you and Cas, you've netted enough for a decent meal, maybe some leftovers. "We should probably head back, given the long drive," Cas says after you toss a three-pounder in with your other spoils. "We promised we'd check in with Sam around two."

You glance at your watch, eyebrows raising at the hour hand a hair past noon. Shoot, probably could've lost a couple more hours without even realizing it. "Right, yeah. Yeah, sure, we can do that."

Before you hit the road, you find a station to clean the trout, cracking wise on how it ain't the size that matters and laughing at all the ways Cas screws up his face. Guy's witnessed just about everything, and he gets queasy over some fish guts.

"I wasn't always at the mercy of the human sense of smell."

"Coulda fooled me with how you stink yourself up with that damn cologne."

He doesn't miss a beat in making a grin split across your lips. "It's better than being subjected to your feet."

As you meander back to the Ford Tudor baking in the sunlight, you don't notice how close you are. Not till your knuckles accidentally bump his, and you shove your hand in your pocket so you don't have to think about how these days, it has less to do with minding the personal space and more that you don't.

"I, uh…you should know that I'm glad," you say once you're out of Bumfuck, Nowhere, and you tell yourself it's only because of the fishing that you're on this male bonding kick. It's obligatory, really. "I'm glad it was you that…you know. Pulled me outta the frying pan. Not some other fluffy-winged assclown. And I'm glad you decided to stick it out with me and Sam. Not just now, but from the beginning." You keep your sight trained on the rearview mirror, a pinch you're not used to feelin' somewhere deep inside of you. One you're not so sure you want to go away. "I'm, uh…I don't think I've told you that enough. Or…ever. And you should, uh. Really know that."

Cas seems like he needs a minute to punch that in. "Thank you, Dean. But you speak too highly of me." His eyes drop to the floorboard. "I've done much more harm than good."

You roll to a four-way stop, reaching over to pat his knee. "Listen, Cas. I know I'm the worst guy to dole out the advice and don't exactly practice what I preach, but take me as an example. Yeah, you fucked up, but what's beating yourself up over it gonna do, huh? You gotta let it go, man. Make good on what you've got. 'Specially now that your ass is mortal. 'Cause in this life, we don't got the luxury of a do-over, and if you allow that shit to haunt you for the rest of your days, well, then that ain't really living." He gives you a funny look. "You know, 'do as I say; not as I do' and all that jazz."

"This coming from the man who's been brought back from the dead several times."

Touché. "Okay, fine, in _theory,_ us grounded folk don't get second chances."

"So theoretically, we wouldn't be having this conversation had the natural laws applied to you."

"Yeah, I…guess." Not that you have a single clue what he's angling at when he lets out a heavy-ass sigh you don't even know how to begin to decode.

"You'll die a more permanent death eventually. So will I, presumably, considering there is little hope of retrieving my original grace. Mortality is the one fate we cannot escape, no matter how hard we try to fight against it."

And you were having such a nice day, too.

You're about to tell Creepy McCreeperson to lay off the Edgar Allen Poe, but he continues before you can butt in. "Though I suppose it's as you say: humanity is forced to make the best of it. And perhaps…"

"What?"

There's a quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Your second chance was my first."

*****

Sam doesn't have much of an update when you swing by this Lucca's deli joint for a late lunch. He struck out at the historical society—no one to question on account of the place being closed today—and research was basically a bust. No surprise there; not like he's gonna find _So You Want to Join an Ancient Secret Cult_ in the religion section.

What does surprise you is the other news bit he has. "So get this—you'll never believe who I ran into at the library."

"Your social life."

Now showing: _Return of the Bitchface._

"Sarah," he says, and you just shrug like that's s'posed to mean anything, following Cas as he opts for outdoor seating. "Our waitress from the diner."

You stop to look up at him before pulling up one of those fancy wrought iron chairs. "You mean that chick who was Frosty in July around you?"

He tries to clamp down on his smirk. "Yeah, whatever."

Yeah, whatever, your ass. He's totally getting off on it. Now if he and his dick don't mind, you've got a homemade Italian sausage cooked to perfection that ain't gonna eat itself. "So what's she doing up here in 'Cisco?"

"Some art auction, apparently, but seeing her again wasn't the strange part. She had this pin on the collar of her dress." He's giving you the dramatic pause. This oughta be good. "An Aquarian star."

"Aquarian…" A forkful of onions dangles at your mouth, eyes going wide. Okay, dramatic pause justified. "Men of Letters?"

"Woman of Letters, but…yeah. She might be able to help us check into some stuff."

Your blood pressure rises. "Whoa, whoa, back up a sec. You didn't tell her we were legacies, did you?"

"Jesus, Dean, no; I'm not stupid. She doesn't know I know about the Men of Letters. I said I was writing my dissertation on the alleged link between Freemasonry and the Knights Templar mythos, and, well, she kinda…laughed at me, and…" He trails off and gets all dreamy-eyed. God, it's worse than you thought.

You snap him back to attention. "And what, Sam?"

He clears his throat. "She, uh, mentioned that I wasn't gonna uncover anything interesting in a public library. Obviously. And that she'd be glad to offer any insight if I ever wanted to get together and discuss. Turns out she's a bit of a history enthusiast herself, and since knowledge of the occult comes with the whole Men of Letters territory, maybe we should take advantage of that, you know? I mean, considering it was a friggin' miracle we tracked each other down after getting dumped in 1947, I figure we're not taking any chances of using the Key of Time to go back to the bunker just for research. And when we've got next to nothing, we've gotta follow whatever leads we have."

Your brother has a point, but don't mean you gotta be happy about it. "Let's say she did buy your cover story. You sure including Hot Velma in on this is such a smart idea? We know the Men of Letters are working with angels. How do we know she isn't gonna report back to them?"

"She's not an angel," Cas says. "At least, she wasn't possessed by one when we were at the restaurant. It's faint, but I can still detect the glow of an angel's grace due to the residual effects of mine."

"Well, maybe that's something," you say, "but I'm still not ruling out that she isn't already some sorta spy for them. Ever think that's why she was so interested in us?"

Sam puts on that smug-ass expression. "You mean, interested in me."

Yeah, yeah, yuk it up. "Fine, Hot Velma can be your stalker."

He shakes his head, playing with what's a sad excuse for a salad even in your book. "I don't really know how to explain it, but…and maybe it doesn't make any sense, but I get this feeling about her that she's legit. Not saying that we have to trust her fully, and believe me, I'll be careful. But I think this is something worth pursuing."

And he claims he doesn't use his dick as a divining rod. "All right, all right, but only 'cause we got bupkis right now. Just watch your ass and holler the moment you suspect something even remotely hinky."

"You know I will."

"Good." You dig back into your grub, making a noise that's borderline moaning when the spices hit your mouth. "Swear to God, best damn sausage I've ever had. Freakin' bene."

Cas' eyes light up. "How _frank_ of you, Dean."

There's no off button on him, is there?

After you've cleaned your plates, you nudge Sam as you head out. "So, what time you callin' it quits today? Gonna have ourselves a fish try tonight."

"Actually, I don't think I'm gonna be back till later in the evening. I'm meeting up with Sarah again. For, uh…" he coughs into his sleeve, "…dinner."

Aw, would you look at that? Baby brother's finally making a move. That deserves a slap on the back. "Sammy, you sly dog! In that case, we won't wait up for you."

"It's not a date. She said she was open to discussing, so we're…discussing."

"Riiight. That how the nerds're referring to it these days?"

Hey, you saw that eye roll. "Yeah, well, in the meantime, this 'nerd' is going to check out an old bookstore she recommended because someone has to pick up the slack for your lazy bum."

"You benched me, 'member?" You sweep your fingers towards him. "All right, you go 'discuss.' Cas and I'll hold down the fort and save a fillet for ya. If you're lucky."

"I take it you guys scored some action out there?"

"Didn't do too shabby."

"So…it was good, then?" Sam scuffs his foot against the sidewalk curb. "I mean, not only the fishing, but…in general, was it good?"

You purse your lips, nodding over at Cas. "You know…yeah. Yeah, it was. Just what the doc ordered."

"Dean was quite pleasant," Cas says, and you have a sneaking suspicion he's implying it's not a natural occurrence. Which, okay, not like you're Mary freakin' Poppins or anything, but you can be fun to hang out with, right? He seemed to like hanging out with you. Didn't he?

You don't know what to do with the thought, so you shove it aside, waving Sam off. "Enjoy your not-date."

"You, too."

It's not till after his car door slams shut that what he's said clicks, leaving you to suffer through an excruciatingly silent drive back to the motel. God, Sam's a giant turd. You know, it's his fault you're even questioning this gay shit in the first place. Not…not that you're _questioning it,_ questioning it. Because you're not. At _all._ But he had to go and bitch about how you and Cas have "history" and he doesn't, and then the dude's sending you off on some play date, anyway. So which side is he on, huh? And which side are you…

Oh. Oh, _fuck,_ no. You are _not…_ no. Nope. Not in a million years. Don't even go there. Don't even…you shouldn't even be having this fucking conversation with yourself. Sam's just needlin' you and being a twerp about it 'cause he's got it in his head that he's missing out on something that's really— _really—_ nothing. And it's not like Cas would ever…

Would he?

Not like…not that it even, like, _matters._ Totally, _totally_ doesn't matter. You're friends. End of story. Not this "or whatever." So… _whatever._

Fuck, you hope it don't matter.


	11. Denial Ain't Just a River in Egypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy gay panic and negative headspace incoming (both on Dean's part) with a dash of John Winchester's A+ parenting and implied/referenced underage prostitution (Dean is 16/17). I honestly wasn't sure how much I really wanted to get into the latter two, so that's why I hadn't previously tagged for them. The references to John's behavior and Dean's prostitution are pretty brief, though, as they're only mentioned when Dean does a monologue on a particular period of his life. 
> 
> And I apologize for the extremely long wait for this chapter and the last. This chapter has been the hardest one to write to date, for various reasons—but on the bright side, it's almost twice as long as my average chapter length. :) I'll also say that by the end of this chapter, the story starts to take steps in a more hopeful, promising direction…although like any good conflict, there will still be setbacks along the way. ;)

You attempt to steal a few winks once you're back at the motel room, telling Cas you're beat from waking up early these past couple days. It's not entirely untrue. It just happens to have an added bonus of avoiding any and all human contact, including with yourself.

That…sounded pervy.

The catnap manages to perk you up a bit—or maybe it's the smell of beer-battered goodness on the horizon—putting a bounce in your step when you go for a supply run. Afterwards, you've got a solid chunk of daylight left, so you head over to a nearby park with a public grill and get your sizzle on. You throw yourself into the preparations, manning the skillet while Cas sees to coating the fillets. There's a certain kinda comfort in it, knowing there's still a couple pleasures in life to be had without the nasty hangover the morning after. And the little things…you s'pose that's really all you have, anyway. When most crap you deal with is the apocalyptic, Stay Puft marshmallow dude type of big, well, sometimes you need that small-town feel to stop you from buying a one-way ticket to the loony bin.

Strange thing is, much as… _those_ thoughts keep buzzing around like some pesky mosquito you can't swat away, Cas actually…it helps. Him being around. Maybe it's a feng shui thing; you dunno. Like things fit together better or something. Yeah, it weirds you out if you think about it too much, but Cas don't seem to be acting like anything's out of the ordinary, happy to just sit and people-watch while you're not schooling him in the ways of the pan fry.

And you know what? It's been nice, shooting the shit with him. Keeping your feet to the ground. So yeah, you're gonna allow yourself to enjoy the moment, the flaky, seasoned awesomeness that is your cooking as it melts in your mouth. And you're gonna let loose, bust a gut when Cas fills you in on the ugly details 'bout giant pandas going extinct or some shit like that and Gabriel—obviously—seeing that as an opportunity to capitalize on the panda porn industry. "Fluffer" is never gonna mean the same thing to you again.

"Save the pandas…Jesus Christ," you say, wiping the tears from your eyes. "So you're telling me there's some _Panda Erotica_ series floating around out there?"

"I assure you that Jesus had nothing to do with it." Cas pins a grin behind the mouth of his beer bottle. "Although the intention of repopulating an endangered species was a noble one, Gabriel's method ended up being quite the—"

"Cas, if the next word outta your mouth is pandemonium, I'll punch you." Your ribs shake with a couple stragglers for laughs. "Oh, man. Your brother was one sick son of a bitch, but compared to the rest of the fuddy duddies in your family, least he knew how to liven things up a bit."

"Yes." He hums to himself. "Even in death, he still manages to cause a stir."

You cock an eyebrow at him. Wasn't that horn-tootin' prick deep-fried angel last you checked?

Cas then explains how he had a run-in with the guy recently, but turns out it was only Meta Douche fucking with Cas' head and Gabe hamming it up with a script. Sure sounds like something those drama queens would do.

"I still have no idea if it was even real," Cas admits. "Well, I knew that the charade in of itself wasn't real, but Gabriel…he could still be out there. He never answered me when I asked him if he was truly dead."

"I hear moose are on the decline. Could set up a trap for 'im." You snicker into your fist. "Use Sammy as bait."

"I've thought about searching for him, but…" He heaves his shoulders. "I see no point in unnecessarily torturing myself when I know I won't be able to locate him. Either he is dead, or he doesn't want to be found."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Cas nods. "Logically, it would appear that the best thing to do is move on. Make peace with it. Like we were talking about earlier. Right?"

He stares at you like he's waiting for you to weigh in, but you just give him a shrug. The hell's he want from you? "Whatever you wanna do, man. I mean, if it was Sam, there's no way I'd be sitting tight on my ass. But your brother's kind of a royal dick, so. There's that."

Cas doesn't say nothin' further. You stretch your legs and scooch on top of the picnic table next to him, smiling as you watch a group of kids kick around a soccer ball, one of them accidentally bonking another in the head. "Dude, I don't even remember the last time I had a normal day like this. No bullshit, no drama." Almost dizzying how light you feel when you take a deep whiff of that fresh air. "Just two guys drinking beer and nothing else."

"It is odd, not having anything to kill. Something that won't last long, I'm sure."

"Hey, don't ruin the moment, okay?" You elbow him. "Lemme enjoy this while we still got it."

He elbows you back, softer. "I enjoy this, too."

"Yeah?" Your eyes graze over him, though you don't notice you're doing it till after the fact, when you're clearing your pipes and pulling at the collar of your shirt. Maybe you're imagining things, but you're pretty sure there were at least a few more inches between you last you blinked. "You know, when we first met, I'm surprised you didn't just smite me back into the fiery furnace. Considering I, y'know, stabbed you."

"You didn't know any better. You also didn't believe I existed."

"You didn't understand shit about humans."

There's a twinkle in his eye you don't remember being there before. Probably 'cause the damn sun hasn't made up its mind whether it's coming or going yet. "I guess we were both wrong."

"Heh, talk about a steep learning curve. Maybe God does have a sense of humor if he stuck the two of us dumbasses together." Course, your own dumb ass doesn't clue in to what you slipped out till you're in the middle of chugging down another mouthful of beer that shoots straight back up. "I mean, um…not…didn't mean…"

He puts a hand to your back. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm…" You motion towards your throat. "Tube…wrong one."

Once you settle down and get the lungs back in commission, Cas—fucking dense as ever about personal boundaries—leans in even closer than before. "You always did have a way of finding me. Even when I didn't want to be found. I always assumed it was divine intervention, but maybe it was something less miraculous. Which makes it more astonishing, really."

You have no friggin' idea what he's going on about anymore. You sorta tuned out after his thumb started working circles at your lower back, the only thought firing off any sparkplugs in that melon of yours is how you still haven't told him hands off.

Why aren't you telling him hands off?

"I just…wish I had the foresight to…"

Your head jerks up. "What?"

The touching hasn't stopped. Maybe it's an unconscious thing; maybe he doesn't—

"Realize it sooner. That perhaps I wouldn't have caused so much irreparable damage if I had trusted you more. That it would have gone better for us if I had…been there for you instead of allowing myself to become swept up in some foolish notion that I was capable of leading anything."

"Oh." You glance down, picking at the bottle label. Trying to swallow. Trying not to think about how his hand is still there; why is it still fucking _there?_ "I, uh…we've had our rocky moments, sure. Hell, rocky months. But far as where we stand now, you've done right by me, 'kay? You've done more than enough. More than I ever would have…" Deserved. You don't fucking _deserve_ it to be there. "Expected."

Finally, his hand falls away, but it tugs your stomach right along with it. "I feel the same way about you, Dean. I hope you believe me when I tell you that."

There's a heaviness to his words that begins to sink into your chest, like an underwater minefield's lying in wait for you. You read too much into it; you tread those waters—and you might never resurface.

Instead, you ask, "Why you always looking like you know something I don't?"

He leans back on his palms, the laugh lines around his eyes actually living up to the name. "The sum of things I know and that you don't is nearly infinite in comparison."

You let out a snort. "God. I forgot how much of an annoying ass you can be."

"Your tone suggests you relish the teasing, regardless."

"Shuddup." You're rolling your eyes for the bajillionth time, but you're also thanking whatever higher power's still listening for the lift in spirits. Speaking of which, you got a beer that needs tending to.

"However, I would wager that the most important things, I've learned because of you. For example…"

"Ugh, you're not gonna get all sappy on me now, are you?"

"For _example,_ " he repeats, a crooked half-smile sneaking up on his face, "how the pizza man, plumber, or cable guy may have ulterior motives for providing customer service."

You bark out a laugh. "Can't go wrong with the classics. Though I'm bettin' you got some mileage outta that 'Commander' title of yours, too."

"I do appreciate the role-playing connotations."

Cas? Role play? That's a…Jesus, that's a new one. Guess he's gone further around the block than you thought. Gotta watch out for those quiet types. "Yeah? The ladies think that's pretty hot? You, uh, taking charge, ordering them around? Maybe a little spanking when they get outta line?"

"Some have taken a thrill to a dominant/submissive relationship, yes. I've found that paraphernalia such as handcuffs and blindfolds can be rather useful in those situations."

If there's a time you wish your brain would shut the fuck up for real, now would be it. Because reminding you that you still got both sets of demon and angel cuffs back at the motel? _Really_ not appropriate. And no, you don't know why your body's feeling the need to tense up, but you do know that images of Cas and restraints are _not. Helping._

"That's…those are…" You gulp, shifting in your seat. "Also good. You…like that, then?" You're curious, is all. No reason. Just making conversation. "The whole bound and gagged, hold 'em down while they're begging for it sorta thing?"

Okay, really curious.

"That seems awfully specific, but if it brings pleasure for the recipient, then I certainly wouldn't deny them that." He gives you that look again—like he knows way too much for your own good. "Does it bring you pleasure?"

Your heart skips enough beats that you should be pronounced legally dead. "Does what now?"

Normally, this'd be the part where you're going deaf from the klaxons—because holy fucking Christ, you're about T-minus three seconds from detonating that minefield—but you can't seem to tear yourself away from testing the waters. Seeing how far Cas would go.

How far you would go.

"Letting someone hold you down while they stimulate you to orgasm."

You get the answer you never wanted—but, oh, you just _had_ to ask for—when your dick decides to cast his vote and mark you down a little higher on the scale than "curious."

You barely save yourself from a face-plant—because today clearly isn't mortifying enough already—as you hop off the picnic table and dart for the parking lot. Before Cas can start asking questions, you mumble something along the lines of needing some air.

"But we're already outdo—"

"Different air!"

It's not like…not like you were thinking about _Cas_ tying you to the bedpost and letting him go to town on you. Except—fuck— _now_ you are, your dick apparently all too happy to jump at the chance to rub it in that you're exactly a handful of Kleenexes away from rubbing one out. Which is why you find yourself palms-down against the hood of the Tudor, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you think about germy hookers, grandmas in bikinis, pandas in heat… _anything_ to fucking distract you.

But nothing sobers you up as fast as the zap to your spine when you hear the shuffle of footsteps. "I sense something is troubling you."

Not the kind of sobering up you were hoping for.

"Trouble?" The chuckle you choke up cuts right through your throat. "No, trouble is some…some punk-ass demon. Trouble is one silver bullet for an entire werewolf pack. Trouble is…Jefferson freaking Starships." Fuck, you'd rather be dealing with all three right now.

"If it's not trouble, then what is it?"

And there's the million-dollar question that you ain't puttin' two cents towards.

"'Cause you know…that's all trouble is supposed to be for us. We do a job; we're in and we're out. We wash our hands of it. And yeah, okay, we've handled some bigger fish, but only difference between them and the small fry is their egos."

"I…don't understand. What does this have to do with—"

"Doesn't matter if it's the damn friggin' apocalypse; there's never been any question about what the right thing to do is. We just do it. It's always been clean-cut, straight-up, black and white. We don't got time for anything else. Hell, most days, we don't got time to even _think_ about anything else. That's where it ends for people like us. That's…where it _has_ to end."

It's nothing but crickets once you reach the bottom line, heart drumming harder with every pulse, time dragging its ass so goddamn slow that you think Cas might never get around to opening his mouth again.

"Oh," is all he has to say. "We're having this conversation."

And that's when time freezes altogether. "What?"

"The…" Cas sighs, looks down and to the side. "Not 'straight-up.' That's what this is really about."

Swear to God, you'll let go of all of your grievances with the bearded dude if he'd just strike you dead right here and now.

He doesn't hold up his end of the bargain. Course.

" _No._ No, that's not…I'm not…"

You scrub a hand over your mouth, retreating to the car to reassume your huddle position because it's all you can do to keep yourself glued together. Fuck, he hasn't been talking to Sam, has he? Gettin' ideas in his head, too? This wasn't supposed to be nothin'. It was supposed to be about catching a break and maybe a fish or two if you were lucky; about throwing back a few cold ones and…yeah, okay, maybe Cas being there was part of that package, too, and maybe that was one of the better parts of it in full honesty, but you shouldn't suddenly be having a meltdown over whether you're ticking the box for chicks or dicks 'cause of it.

 _Suddenly._ You say that like it hasn't come up before. Like there hasn't been an itch under your skin that you ain't scratching 'cause you weren't keen on earning yourself a fight that bruised more than your ego. Like you hadn't learned the hard way that tightening your belt and putting up with the rumbling in your gut is a fucking picnic compared to a dad soused-up on Johnnie Walker and raving about how no self-respecting son of his is gonna turn himself into some cheap little… _that._

It almost makes you laugh, even as you try to blink away the wetness in your eyes, the pressure at the bridge of your nose. Self-respecting? Right. 'Cause that ship hadn't sailed a long time ago.

You're not an idiot. You know that a normal life isn't in the cards for you. You've known it since the day you were running your mouth off to this kid in your class about hunting some badass vamp and he called you a freak; since Dad threw a loaded shotgun at you and told you to "look out for Sammy, son" like the first part of that order was a qualifier for the second. The spooky and the kooky, the shit you shoulder so no one else has to—'specially your kid brother—that's the scope of your world. And even though you know you're the leading man in this horror story, that you've played a starring role in fucking it up for yourself and everyone else around you…is it really that much to ask? To pretend for two seconds that your lives aren't going down the fucking crapper?

Cas is keeping his lid shut through all your ranting. You don't know if he's really that speechless or if he's just humoring you, but you do know damn well you're beating around the bush; that it's all gonna be wasted breath in the end. Because it's only a matter of time till that circle you're spinning leads you right back where you started. Right back where you don't wanna be.

Except maybe you do.

"I mean, today was the first not-shitty day in, like…ever. Where it didn't feel like some cloud of doom's hanging over my head. Like it…I don't know. It just…" You can't think straight; can't stop your throat from closing up on you. Shit, you can't even complete your damn sentences. "I-I mean, am I crazy, or is something…different? Because it's like…it's like I actually _like_ hanging out with you. Fuck, that's not what I meant." You're shaking, pacing, running your hands through your hair because…fuck, you dunno, but what the fuck else can you do? "I mean, you were okay before, but…shit, this is not…I don't…but I can't even enjoy that because…"

"What, Dean?" He's moving in on you, and if you weren't on edge before, you're hanging by your pinky finger now. And okay, nope, you take back what you said—you hate being around him. You hate feeling more exposed than you would streaking down a football field at halftime. You hate it so bad, you'd do anything to be able to claw that feeling out of you. 'Cause when you're around him, there's no ignoring it; there's no ignoring how bottomless that pit is in your stomach. And you…you can deal with empty. You've been running on fumes long as you can remember without ever needin' whatever new age, deeper purpose baloney is out there. Just you and your brother: that's always been your answer to the meaning of life.

What you can't deal with is this jerk coming along and actually giving a rat's ass about you. Actually making you want…

Fuck, you just _want._

"Cas…" Don't you say it. Don't you fucking say it. "What is this, even, between…" Oh, God, you're gonna be sick. "You know…us?"

And there it is.

Like there _is_ an "us."

You're about to brace yourself for the full-body squinting, the inevitable _I don't understand, Dean; what do you mean, "us?"_ and the air quotes along with it—and then you're actually gonna have to talk about _feelings_ and that's when the shit'll really hit the fan—but Cas just…doesn't say anything. Doesn't even look surprised. Just stands there fidgeting with his hands like he doesn't know what to do with himself, eyes all red and dewy and face scrunched up like…Jesus, you'd sooner think you told him someone died.

In any other situation, you'd be asking what the hell's so wrong, but then it hits you that maybe the worst part of this whole mess ain't the emotional vomit. Maybe it's that terrible aftertaste in your mouth that don't know—fuck, that actually might give a shit about knowing—whether he reads it the same as you. Whether he _wants_ it the same as you. Because when you ask yourself if you honest to God, even remotely feel something for the dude that doesn't require blasting through the Great fucking Wall of China just to get through to each other…to get _to_ each other…you can't answer with a definitive no. Hell, that answer probably got lost somewhere in purgatory. That's when the edges started to blur; when the only thing you saw through your tunnel vision was Cas. Getting him out. Taking him home. 'Cause for everything you'd been through, you'd hoped that "home" meant something a little more down-to-earth for him…or if it didn't, that maybe it _could_ mean something more. That you could…

But then it all went tit-side up. Par for the course these days, but maybe Cas was right. Maybe it is some kinda punishment that gets worse every time it rears its ugly head. All one big fucking train wreck, really—you grieved a dead guy that turned out to be not so dead (on three separate occasions, actually, and if _that_ ain't fucked up); Sam almost did croak on you, and you screwed it up even worse angel-pasting him back together; Cas went from some holy robo-assassin to a…well, a pretty damn decent human being, but then you had to give him the boot, and instead of trying to patch things up with the two people that matter to you most, you were already "Highway to Hell"-ing it with the Mark.

That's the way it's always been, hasn't it? Always the way it's had to be. Just trying to get by and survive, dealing with one code red after another. Never let yourself think about anything beyond that…because the moment you do, you jinx yourself out of a whole lot more than a Coke. And you—you're already barely hanging on to what you got. If you lost that…

But then that bullshit with the angels and their torches and pitchforks happened, and you…Cas…he still gave them up and let you walk free. Truth be told, it doesn't confuse you as much as tick you off because…why the hell would he even bother? You totally had it coming. And even if you didn't, you don't got nothing to offer 'cept a load of damaged goods and a bar tab the length of Route 20. Seriously. What the hell's so great about you that you're worth screwing over an entire army?

What was he really saying when he told you that you ain't just one guy?

You're already too close, heart and lungs about to full-on mutiny on you, but fuck, you need to know; you need…

"Cas." You fist your hand to keep it from trembling, rough up your chords to keep you from cracking. "Why'd you really do it, huh? Why'd you choose one guy over heaven?"

"You mean why did I choose you, Dean."

He says it like it's not even a question. Like you might as well have asked him if the sky's blue. You're pretty sure there's an implied _assbutt_ somewhere in there, too. "I hate to break it to you, but you really…you really got the raw deal on—"

But you don't get to finish that thought before he slams you up against the car, pinning your arms and fucking your personal space altogether. It's been years since he's gotten all up in your face like this, where you can nearly taste the charcoal grit on his breath, the heat on your mouth, but this time, you don't know if it's the chills or the—jesusfuck, the goddamn _thrills_ putting your neck hairs on end. "Stop it, Dean. Just… _stop._ "

If he wanted your ticker to crap out on you, objective complete.

"Why did you spend a year trying to get me out of purgatory? Why'd you forgive me after… _everything?_ I didn't _want_ to be forgiven. But you…" He loosens his grip, slides a hand down your arm. "You still thought I was worth saving."

He leaves out the detail where you're the one who broke him in the first place.

"I heard you. I heard every prayer, every cry. For an entire. _Year._ And every blow I suffered from the leviathans, I'd hoped it would be the last. Because I couldn't…I could barely withstand the weight of my own burden, and with you there… _always_ there…I…"

Right. He don't need to explain himself; you remember. All too well. Even then, he didn't want nothin' to do with you. And why would he? He used to be a friggin' angel, man. He's seen the things you've done; what you've become. Any person with a lick of sanity would've jumped ship a long time ago.

And maybe you don't wanna know the ending to this story, either.

So that's when you spot it: your cue to jump ship. "Gee, Cas, sorry I was such a fucking inconvenience for you!"

You try to wrench yourself away, but he grabs you by the shoulder and jerks you back. "Dammit, Dean! That's not—" He immediately steels himself, huffs at you like he's about as close to losing it as you are. "Why is it that everyone else deserves a pardon and not you? When will you extricate your head from that ass of yours and finally understand that you _are_ worth saving? Why do you think I'm still here?"

"How the hell should I know? Until recently, you've either been a loose cannon or a total space cadet!"

It's a low blow, one that sucks the air right outta Cas and cuts him off at the knees. You know the words are awful; they're poison— _you're_ poison—but you can't help yourself, can't help that lashing out and getting pissed is the first thing you dive for because it's your safe zone. It's familiar.

And the way you feel about Cas…you're on other side of the world from familiar.

"Dean…"

You square your jaw. You can't look at him. Won't.

"Dean, just…listen to me. _Please._ I know you are merely acting out, but I am begging you…" He reaches for your wrist, cupping your hand in his, and it sends a jolt straight to the back of your skull. "I need you to realize that you are not the one to blame for what happened; that I—"

"Don't"—you shove him off of you—"touch me."

"Dean, wait!"

Whatever he's gotta say, it don't matter, and if that makes you a coward, hell if you're gonna give a shit. Because you? Yeah, no. Done.

You scramble to dig out the car keys and toss them at Cas. "I'm going for a walk. Don't follow me."

"But how—"

"I'll call a cab!"

Fuck… _fuck,_ you need to get out of here. You're so tweaked out, shakes in your legs and jitters under your skin, that you can't decide whether you'd rather punch somebody or fuck 'em. Unfortunately, you're already full-up on morning-after regrets for the night, so you settle for wandering down along the waterfront instead, which turns out to be like a damn Journey song. Streetlights, people. Mostly couples, you eventually realize. Figures. Everybody's got somebody 'cept you. Friggin' fantastic, really. How they're holding hands, laughing it up. Some dude twirling his girl and kicking up their feet to a little ditty like they came straight out of the fucking _Notebook,_ all caught up in their happily ever after.

Yeah. What kind of happily ever after ends with both people kicking the bucket, anyway? Death by heartbreak—what a load of crap.

You take a detour and veer off into an alleyway, tailing a waft of bluesy jazz and stumbling into what could've been some sorta speakeasy back during Prohibition. The air's stiff, the lights're low, and everyone's puffing like chimney stacks, but no one's asking questions, and that, you can dig.

So you find yourself an open table and order up a scotch on the rocks, offering up extra lettuce as an unspoken agreement with the server to keep 'em coming. As you ease back into your seat, you get an eyeful of the blonde making love to the mic stand, swaying her hips and working a pair of red lips that look like they could tell you a dirty secret or two. Reminds you a bit of that diva chick from when Cas went all _Inception_ on you, actually. You catch her making eyes at you, tipping your hat to her before setting it aside. People can say what they want about your sleeping habits; that don't mean you don't know how to be a gentleman in the presence of a lady.

_"Your love's a drug I have to drop. It hurts me so much, but I just can't stop."_

You swirl your drink, enjoying the slow burn in the back of your throat, the way your cheeks get real nice and warm, and goddamn, people knew their whiskies in the post-war glory days. Yep. Sure was a simpler time back then. Back when men were men and dames were dames. When a man would go off to raise hell for his country and dream about his sweetheart stateside, write her letters 'bout how hard he was fighting just to get back home to her. 'Bout how he can't wait to hold her in his arms and see those gorgeous baby blues of hers again.

_"I can't stop burnin'; I'm yearnin' so much for you."_

And…shit. There's that stupid color again: blue. Like oceans and geezer sweaters and certain dopey-eyed ex-angels. Ugh, can't seem to get it out of your head, no matter how smooth the booze goes down; no matter how much of it goes down. And if you don't get yourself straightened out soon, you're probably gonna have to add your fucking balls to that list. The stuff of Frost and Yeats right here, ladies.

All right, fine. You'll admit it. It's not like you've never found another guy to be, you know, good-looking or whatever. Sam might rib you for it—the fucking bitch—but Dr. Sexy's a perfect example. 'Cause… _c'mon._ First off, the name? Speaks for itself. Not to mention that cowboy boots are always sexy in your book, but doesn't automatically mean you want to knock those boots with the dude.

There was that, uh…what's his name? Aaron, you think…and yeah, sure, you were flattered, but not like it was ever gonna go anywhere even before you knew the jerk was yanking your chain. And that time Dean Smith took spot-checking a little too literally with a personal trainer that really liked it up the ass? Naw, you can't count that. You also drove a Prius and chugged wheat germ like it was your lifeblood. "Cleansing" was part of your standard vocabulary, for chrissakes. If there's a tenth level of hell, that would've been it.

And purgatory…ehhh. So maybe you and Benny…exchanged a few favors. You were down there for a whole year, man. You weren't gonna get no satisfaction in the usual sense, and sometimes, you needed to feel something other than your own grip. Just some friendly, hands-on assistance. That's all it was.

As for the rest…well. Had to stir up the gravy somehow if you didn't want Sammy to go hungry. Not like you weren't used to doing things messy.

Your first experience—if you can even call it that, but it's a helluva lot better than the other choice words that were thrown at you—wasn't long after you'd done that stint at the boys' home. You hadn't been able to get a hold of Dad in four days; hadn't eaten a meal in three, 'less you count the stale bag of pretzels you swiped from some expired inventory you rustled up from the trash. Couldn't risk another five-finger discount—Dad made it crystal-clear your future wouldn't be so "Sonny" the next time you pulled a stunt like that—and you weren't good enough for pool hustlin' just yet, least not enough for anyone to take you seriously. That usually required sneaking into the bar in the first place (which you obviously did, but not without getting your ass handed to you once or twice). Lucky you, hitting up a particularly skeezy dive one night led to this biker dude hitting you up with an even skeezier opportunity.

"That face of yours could make some money, kid," he'd told you, but he hadn't been from no modeling agency.

You'll just say you learned real quick to control your gag reflex.

There was that one guy you ran into a couple years later who was different, though. You're fuzzy on the name…Rob or Rod, maybe. Probably close to two decades in the age gap, but he was nicer. Not so hot to trot as the other assholes. Course, the bar ain't high, but at least he made it seem like he was happy to see you. Made you want to fool yourself into believin' it wasn't just 'cause you were about to deep-throat 'im, even if the wide-mouth grins, the easy way he had about him were part of the act. Didn't stare at you like a piece of meat; didn't try any funny business. Actually gave a damn when you were showing signs of needing him to back off, when you couldn't…when you couldn't take it anymore.

And here's…here's what's really dumb: the thing you remember most about him? Was how he told you what a—shit, you can't even think it without…

You set down your glass to steady your hand, wetting your throat. What a _good boy_ you were. That's what he'd said. Two words. Those two fucking words. That's what stuck with you. Fuck, how pathetic is that? How much of a sad sack did you have to be for him to be balls-deep while you sucked him off, and you…you ate every last bit of that shit up? How screwed up did your life have to be where a complete stranger jizzing all over your face gave you more attention and praise than your own goddamn father?

It gets better, though. It wasn't a one-night kneel; you ended up paying this guy a visit just about every time you rolled through town. Hell, long as you're being honest with yourself, maybe you even thought up bogus excuses to go out of your way.

Maybe you even sorta…

Your fingers clench around the remainder of your scotch, sniffing back a nose about to go running on you. No. No, that don't matter. In the end, it was all about practicality. Only when you were strapped for cash; when your brother was lookin' bonier than normal. Kid shot up like a freakin' beanpole when he hit puberty. And when it came down to those kind of stakes, ten minutes for a sure thing was a safer bet than a half-hour game you could strike out on. Desperate times, desperate measures, right? You're not…you're not _really_ into dudes like that; not like you're logging into SergeantDrillMe.com at two a.m. every morning (totally fake site, by the way). Besides, now that you're up to snuff on your eight-ball, you haven't had to stoop to that level in years, thank God.

'Cept that fact don't stop it from flooding back to you. Like it was just yesterday you were on your knees, squeezing your eyes shut and pretending you were somewhere else. Like it was just yesterday you…

God, why the fuck are you still thinking about this?

You knock back the last of your scotch, make the next one a double. They both go down hard, but you ain't letting up on the shots till your eyes're drier than your liver, till you finally hit that sweet spot where you're loose-limbed and sittin' cozy. Chicks, man. That's the only way to go—the straight and narrow. They leave you feeling the good kinda fucked, not fucked up. And honestly, how can you resist when there's a knockout of a broad fixin' her gaze on you from across the room?

You bite at your lips, throw your songbird a wink as she heads off stage and onto the floor. Apparently, you make enough of an impression for Blondie to seek you out like a fly to honey. You pull out a chair and let her sidle up next to you, her accent rolling off the tongue real low, like black velvet. "Most of the people here are regulars, but I've never seen you before."

Probably German, if you had to guess. You've always had a thing for exotic women. "Maybe you just weren't looking hard enough."

It gets you a smile, one that could actually put a shine to this crummy place. "I suppose that means a proper introduction is in order," she says, striking a match and lighting up one of her slims. "Elsa. And you are?"

"Elsa…kinda like _Casablanca,_ huh?"

She tips her chin up, exhaling a long white stream of smoke like they do it in the movies. "I haven't heard that one."

With an eyebrow raised, she's got a look to her like you're lucky you're cute, but that's just a sign that you still got it, and it's about damn time. Yeah, like Sam's the only one who can score the babes. Halle-fucking-lujah, balance is restored.

Now you just need an alias, and you go with the first idea that dings: your fake P.I. license. "Name's Lou. Lou Gramm."

But like a switch flip, whatever sparkle there was in her eyes dies right out. "I knew a Lou."

You don't know what weird-ass reason she's got for acting all cagey on you, but you figure you're better off not asking. Instead, you take another crack at that ice with a bit of small talk, telling her you came up from L.A. on a business trip, and that seems to warm her up again.

"Oh? Beautiful city, isn't it? So is San Francisco. Full of life, magic. California is indeed for the dreamers." She savors a slow drag of her cigarette. "Usually, I perform at the Blue Room in Los Angeles, but I do a number here on occasion."

"So maybe I'll see you around sometime." Your mouth quirks at the thought.

"Or…" She steals a cocktail napkin, scribbling some digits and an address. "Perhaps you could see me tonight."

Well, you ain't arguing with that logic.

You rendezvous with Elsa at this Palace Hotel, the kind of place that's worthy of a whistle soon as you walk in. Talk about swanky, Jesus. Clearly, you're working the wrong beat. You stuff yourself with a couple of the silver platter apps, sneak some of the swag when the john attendant isn't looking, ooh and aah at the high-class digs, but once you head up to her room, the only sightseeing you're interested in is whatever's waiting for you under Egyptian cotton sheets. You were right about those lips and dirty secrets; she's moaning as you run a palm up the slit in her dress, navigating those soft curves and teasing at her breasts while she writhes in damn near unspeakable pleasure. Tits and pussy: your natural element. Finally, the world makes sense again.

And then it don't.

You're about to lay on the sweet nothings, nibble at her ear till she whines, but when the smell of her perfume hits you, you freeze. For a second, the only channel your brain's getting any reception is a reminder of Cas and that ridiculous musk of his; how you were in the backseat of that Pontiac, him and his bum arm one step from canoodling you—and you and your shoulder one step from not mindin' as much as you claimed to. Before you can shut it out, it's back: the want, the need…the _ache_ for something more, only it's not a throbbing between the legs anymore. As much as you try to bury yourself in skin and instant gratification, the gratification ends up being…not so instant. Or gratifying. It feels…downright _wrong,_ actually.

And that's when the fear snowballs into sheer panic; when you suddenly can't get it up even though there's a hella fine body beneath you. You're desperate to feel something, _anything,_ rutting like a goddamn animal, but nothing's doing it for you. It's not enough. It's not…

_Fuck._

"I think"—she starts, and you go for one last kiss, grasping at anything to get the motor running again—"you should leave."

Maybe it's the sauce; maybe you drank too much; maybe you just…fuck, what the hell is going on with you? But you don't got the luxury of figuring that out, knowing you've gotta make a swift exit if you want to keep your dignity. If there's any of it left.

Turns out there isn't after you bump over a bouquet of fresh flowers, shattering a vase that probably has more net worth than you've ever raked in in your entire lifetime. "Sorry, I…shit." You race for the bathroom to snatch a clean towel to mop up the water, but she tells you to forget about it. "I-I swear…this has _never_ happened before. It wasn't that I wasn't in the mood; I just…I've got a load on my mind right now, and—"

"Here." Elsa slips a card inside your suit jacket. "I know of a good doctor."

You're in sorrier shape than that dumb vase when the door shuts behind you.

Instead of putting yourself back together again—because that'll never happen—you go with your only tried-and-true method: find the nearest bar and drown your humiliation in more liquor. Fucking Cas. This never would've happened if he hadn't, y'know…existed. Always flapping in at bad times and flapping out at even worse ones. Always bashing down those damn doors. Like, seriously. Is he allergic to doorknobs?

You take another swig of whatever swill's in front of you; hell if you know anymore. Always ruining your life, that… _life ruiner._

Though. You guess if you had to have sex with a dude—like, absolutely no other option—it'd probably be Cas.

Of course, that _would_ be the thought that gets a rumble outta your jungle.

Come on, man! You were pushing rope not even twenty minutes ago, and _now_ you're popping a boner? You're tempted to start screamin' at your crotch—'cause where the hell was he when you needed him earlier?—and it honestly wouldn't be the most embarrassing thing you've done tonight. Ugh, thank God you're hunched over a bar stool where no one'll notice. Meanwhile, you're going into damage control mode and drinking up till it waters down the thoughts of…y'know… _stuff._

But if you can't set your own self straight, you're at least gonna do it to someone else. You lean over and explain to the guy next to you that you're a pie kinda guy, not this…this cake and frosting business. You bang women—says so right on your OkCupid profile. You'll bang…you'll bang _all_ the women.

"I mean, I ain't one for tootin' my horn," you say to him, "but I got a record that's coming up on the heels of Warren friggin' Beatty."

"Who's Warren Beatty?"

Aw, who needs 'im, anyway? Not when there's Lisa. Beautiful, bendy Lisa. And the stamina that girl had, Christ. Now that's something you'll raise your glass to, and you damn well do. Over and over again until the bartender cuts you off and tells you to go home to your wife—your fucking _wife—_ and that's…that's when you _really_ lose it. Next dude that looks at you funny, it'll be an upper cut straight to the jaw, and boy, you make good on that. So good that it earns you a bloody nose and a cab ride back to what you're seventy percent certain's the door to your motel room.

Oh, yeah. The key. That might, uh. Help with the other thirty percent.

Soon as you stumble inside, though, you remember you got a bunkmate.

And he's awake.

Too bad Sam's not an alternative; he's still off scoring some action with that Sarah chick while you're getting fuck all because apparently it's Hate Dean Winchester Day (which technically you celebrate 365 days a year, but hey, that's your own goddamn prerogative). The smart thing to do would be to book a room for yourself, but you're on a fucking roll of doing the not-smart thing, so why the hell would you stop now? You're probably gonna pass the fuck out once you hit the sheets, anyway; might as well crash and burn and put an end to what will forever be one of the most miserable nights of your life. And maybe if you're lucky, the only souvenir you'll have from this nightmare is a hangover.

Right. Since when have you ever been lucky?

You attempt to maneuver your way over to sweet, sweet oblivion, but apparently stealth don't work so good with all that liquor sloshing around inside of you.

"Dean…" Cas slides off his bed. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," you hiccup. No, really. You're pretty sure it's those damn peaches of his inching up your throat.

God, you are…so, _so_ wasted, man. So un-fucking-believably _wasted._ There's only been, like, a handful'a times you've gotten this tanked-up before, and if those are anything to go by, you're gonna be up close and personal with some ugly-lookin' floor tile in your near future. And just as all three of your functioning brain cells get around to figuring that it might be a wise idea to head for the can now, you feel a hand on your arm, holding you steady.

When your peepers zero in on Cas, you forget about the peaches. You forget about everything. Everything 'cept that knot in your chest you still call a heart; how it's gonna bust right through your ribs; how maybe you really _aren't_ drunk enough for this; how his lips are— _fuck._ They're right. Fucking. _There._

And how you're fucking _kissing_ him.

It's not winning any tens for grace, the way you grab fistfuls of his shirt and nearly miss your mark planting your lips at the corner of his mouth, but hell if you ain't going all in. And God, he's warm, like…like peach fuzz and old man cardigans warm, a rush of…fucking _everything_ to your head like it's bottoms up all over again. Only now it's Cas you're swallowing down, his lip between your teeth, your tongue pressed to his mouth, and even though you can't get enough of him, you ain't worryin' about hitting empty. 'Cause…fuck. Fuck, you don't _want_ to be empty anymore; you want him all. You're all fucking in, baby, including that—God, that stupid fucking _cologne—_ and you won't come up for air till…

Till he's brushing a sleeve across his mouth and pushing you away.

"Dean, you're inebriated."

Oh.

_Shit._

You don't know whether to apologize or tell him what an absolute fucking idiot you are.

You go for babbling idiot instead.

"Fuck, Cas, I'm…was, was the only way I…don't know if I…needed the…the cour—" You stop short when you feel your eyes stinging, throat swelling. This was a mistake; a huge goddamn mistake. "Sorry, sorry…fuck, 'm sorry…I…you…you deserve better than…shit, I'm…'m shit—"

"Hush, Dean." He clamps down tight on your arm. "We'll deal with this in the morning. You need hydration and sleep."

He's pissed at you. Course, he is. _You're_ pissed at you. You're such a mess, such a fucking goddamn shitty mess, and oh, God, the room's spinning—

You blink, and you're on your hands and knees, blowing chunks like rapid fire. Jesus Christ, it's worse than that time you inhaled a bucket of Carolina Reaper chili. This is it. You're gonna die. Like Elvis. Right on the shitter. And just when you think you're gonna cramp up from the dry heaving, you collapse, lungs finally giving you a rest as you shut your eyes and snuggle up to whatever you can grab at for a bit of relief—which happens to be the toilet, but you don't give two shits when the cool porcelain against your cheek is a freakin' godsend. Oh. Oh, that's _nice._

Your not-so-beauty sleep is disturbed when something moist nudges you in the face…the fuck? "Here," Cas says, offering you a wet rag. "You should clean yourself up."

Yeah, you'd like to tell him there's a lot of things you should be doing right now, but he's too busy taking your clothes off—hey, that's the first on your list—and swear to his dad, you're about to have a giggling fit because what the fuck else can you do when you just ralphed all over yourself after copping a feel on your best friend who has a fucking dick instead of boobs?

Also because you're really fucking ticklish.

"Y'know…" you drawl out. "You're giving me some major mixed signals here."

"Your shirt and pants are soiled. I'm trying to make you more comfortable."

Shit, the irony. It hurts so much to laugh, it'll probably kill you. "Not as soiled as I'd like to…soil you. How's…how'sat for a fucking pun, huh? Get it? _Fucking?_ " You spit out something chewy. Probably more peach. "Or maybe you jus' want at my perky nipples. That it?"

Egging him on don't get you the faintest reaction. The dude goes on his merry little way, balling up your clothes and completely blowing you off. Like you're not even there. "So I…so I spill my guts—ha ha,  _literally!—_ and now you're giving me the cold shoulder? Fucking…cocktease!"

In the non-slushy bits of your brain, you're going nuclear at what you've just said, but override's a bitch.

'Specially when there's nothing left to go up in flames but the truth.

"Did I just imagine all this"—you gesture vaguely from his eyes to yours when he returns, taking the rag from you—"between us? Is there an 'us,' or am I…am I just crazy, Cas?"

There's a garbling noise, like the tap running, and then he kneels down to prop your ass back up. He places the damp rag against your forehead, and you groan at the touch, letting him wipe at your mouth where you missed. It should be a hell of a lot more humiliating, him taking care of you like this—and by morning, it probably will be—but for now, it feels too fucking good to fall into him. To allow yourself one fucking moment to give in.

"No," he eventually says, and you think there's a hand through your hair just then. "You're not crazy."

He brings you pills and water, orders you to drink up, and for the first time, you've got the common sense to shut up and listen. With his palm at your back and your head on his shoulder, he leads you outta the bathroom, but before you can get too handsy, he plunks you down onto…oh. You're in bed now. Wow, this mattress is comfy. You love this mattress. You'd make love to this mattress.

You'd love it a lot more, though, if…

"I hate…I hate that you're always leaving, Cas." You smoosh your face into your pillow. "Why don't you…fucking stay fer fucking once?"

You wave your hand about to reach for him, but you get nothing but air. And Cas…Cas doesn't say a damn word. Not a single fucking word. Just flips the light like…that's the end of that.

A fucking plus, Winchester. Didn't you say somethin' about you being a total goddamn mess? You're a self-fulfilling prophecy. You should be a fucking…what the fuck are they called? With the…the shiny-ass balls?

Heh. _Balls._

Well, fuck him, man. Fuck him and his balls so…fucking hard. Fuck your brain so fucking hard for even caring 'bout this shit. _Fuck,_ you really need to fuck. Yeah, like…instead of, like, a good long shower, you just really need a good long…need a…fuck, what were you thinkin' 'bout again?

Your eyes start to go heavy on you, but when you're one jump from boarding the train to dreamland, the side of your bed dips down, rolling you back into…

Cas?

You're pure molasses now, and by the time you actually get the idea in your head to, y'know, _react,_ he's already crawled into that creaky bed of yours, arm flopped around your...is that his arm around your waist?

"Don' wan'be the li'l spoon, Cas."

"Shh. Go to sleep."

You'll let him win this one. You're too tired to argue, is all. Got nothing to do with how good it feels to sink into him, have his arm around you. And not the way he's got his fingers threaded through yours, neither. Nope. Definitely not that.

You close your eyes, soaking in the kinda warmth you ain't ever getting from any whiskey. "Why…"

"Because you need your rest."

"No, 's not…" You curl your fingers tighter around his. "Why you…put up wi' me'n m'ass?"

At first, you don't hear nothin' but the tick of the alarm clock, the gradual, deep breaths at the back of your neck. "Because. The only one who's more of a stubborn mule than you is me. And…" You bite your lip as you feel a brush of stubble against your ear. "I do want there to be an…'us.' More than you know, Dean."

Huh. How 'bout that.

You've got a mighty need to kiss him again, but that won't go over too well with the puke breath, so you settle for the stroke of his thumb instead, squeezing him right back until you drift off at long last.

And somewhere in the parts of you that ain't drowning, you realize that maybe the liquor ain't the real reason you're so far gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in the speakeasy scene is ["Torched Song" by The Real Tuesday Weld/Claudia Brücken](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-7l6GNEhCA), which Elsa also happens to sing in _L.A. Noire_.


	12. Pandora's Dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm still working on this fic, slowly but surely. :) I've reached that point where I don't have the plot entirely planned out—I know the ending and I do have several ideas for scenes between now and then, but I still have to sort out how it's all going to string together.
> 
> I was also a bit hesitant to write this chapter as I've had this particular scene in mind for probably a year now, and I really wanted to do it some semblance of justice. But you know how it goes…words can never exactly capture how you picture it. That being said, I hope you enjoy it all the same. (Even though it does get a little dark, buuuuut you may or may not want to get used to that. There will be fluffy scenes in the future to balance it out a bit, too.)

Starting your day off by asking yourself how much you had to drink last night is never a good sign.

This is a brand new low for you. Hell, you didn't even think you had a "low." You just figured that about ten or so years ago, your liver decided to suck it up and deal with the bottomless hatch you call a throat. But when you wake up this morning, oh, _God,_ do you have a bottom. Because compared to the bitch of a hangover pounding on all four walls of your brain, a pair of big-ass gongs banging on either side of your head would be a delightful fucking treat. And— _Jesus Christ—_ opening your eyes? Of all the dumbshit things you could do right now, that's ringing in at number one, your inner vamp hissing as you tug the sheets over your head to block out the friggin' sunlight. Course, then you feel like the covers are suffocating you, and you keep throwing the sheets off and on again for a solid five minutes till you realize it's a lose-lose situation and force your ass outta bed. And by "force," you mean "fall." Painfully.

Once your limbs finally decide to get their act together, with all the grace of a zombie and your mouth drier than Death Valley, you grab whatever pill bottle's within reach and shove your head under the tap.

"I presume you failed to notice the fluids I had already set out for you."

You're dribbling all over yourself when you look up to see Cas and that fucking clinical stare of his. Apparently "fluids" are a full glass of orange juice and a lukewarm cup of coffee. You don't got the energy to tell him it's too early for him to be all up on your case, though, so you just you wipe an arm across your chin, mumbling a "Mhhrmning t'ya, too" as you drag your feet into the bathroom.

"It's afternoon," he calls after you.

You mean to slam the door shut to make a point, but—fuck, Jesus, your _head—_ that's a mistake.

After a couple splashes of water to knock you a peg up from barely conscious, you roll your tongue over in your mouth while making faces in the mirror. Got that nice 'n' hairy feel to it, so you squirt out a glob of toothpaste and get yourself minty fresh, squinting at all the skin care crap on the counter. Explains why Cas' been hogging the john lately. Fucking _preening_ himself. What's this label say? Peach-scented—

Wait, peach?

The toothbrush clatters into the sink.

Oh, God.

_You kissed Cas._

No, no, no, no… _no—_ this…this can't be happening. This…you…kissed _Cas?_ And oh, God, you told him… _things._ You had puke breath while telling him those things. Things involving… _dicks._ _Your_ dicks. _Plural._

_"Us."_

You palm at your forehead, tugging at your hair because…shit. Shit, shit, _shit._ This isn't…this isn't real; this isn't happening; this isn't—Christ, you let him _spoon_ you. As in his schlong up against your ass and Jesus Mary and Joseph you're gonna throw up all over again. Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God… _dammit,_ what the hell's wrong with you that you can't even _drink_ right? Because if you had, you would've made damn sure to wipe your memory drive. Or better yet, you should've just dropped dead altogether. You'll take a six-foot bed of dirt over…over…

_Crap._

Okay…okay, slow down. Maybe this ain't as bad as you think. Cas' been drunk like, what, two times in his life? He doesn't know any better. You'll just explain to him that when a moron goes and tanks himself, he sometimes does things he wouldn't normally do (or, like…ever). So, yeah, okay, maybe they end up getting a little more touchy-feely than they realize, but they don't have any control over it; they don't _mean_ to do it. It just kinda…happens. Dudes lay a wet one on other dudes when they're super hammered, like, all the time. Totally not a big deal.

Course, that usually involves a touchdown and an "I love you, man!"

Yours involved a bed and girly-ass _cuddling._

You brace yourself against the sink, forcing yourself to stiffen up as those gears of yours're cranking overtime to come up with a way outta this mess. All right, so you gotta do a little damage control; so what? You just…gotta stand your ground, is all. Yeah. Man up, dude. Give it to him straight. Tell him it don't mean nothin'. End of story.

Even if your ticker's drumming out what you're pretty sure is Morse code for "bullshit."

When there's a tap at the door, your heart stops altogether. On second thought, fuck damage control. You're not above hiding in the bathroom for the rest of your life (wouldn't be the first time you've slept in the tub, either).

"Dean." Your throat starts closing up as the knocking continues. "Dean, it's almost one. Sam believes he may have a lead on the case, and we're supposed to be meeting him in…" Cas pauses, maybe to glance at his watch. "Nearly five minutes now."

"I, uh…um…" Hands shaking as you fumble for the flush handle, you pray to a God that's not listening that you can milk this sick thing for a while longer. Not that you're really faking it. "Probably best if you go on without me, man. Still feeling pretty shitty, so don't think I'm gonna be much help today. Wouldn't wanna end up hurling all over you."

"You just described the majority of last night."

Instantly, the heat rushes to your cheeks, though it ain't from any kinda fever. "Yeah, you know, I think I actually might've gotten some food poisoning or somethin'. Those beer nuts—never know whose grubby hands are touching them. Think I just…gotta let this thing run its course. Get it out of my, y'know…system."

You hear a long, drawn-out sigh from Cas' side of the door. Heavy-sounding even for him. "Fine. I'll put the pain relievers and the fluids on the nightstand." Could he stop with the "fluids" thing? You'd really like to _not_ be reminded of you exchanging fluids with him, which…oh, crud, it didn't go further than you remember, did it? "There are some leftover eggs and sausage if you later find yourself up to eating something."

"Uh…okay. Thanks," is all you can manage to squeeze out. That, and: "Just…tell Sam it's food poisoning, all right? He doesn't need to know about the other…stuff."

You're straining your ears, but you don't get a response. "Cas?" When you lean up against the wood, only thing you catch is the outside motel door clicking shut. Huh. Did he leave?

You peek your head out of the john, doing a quick sweep of the room. Empty.

Well, that was easy.

For good measure, you pry apart the blinds and scan the parking lot. Car's gone, too. Kinda strange, actually. Since when does he ever listen to you? Pretty much every single conversation you've ever had boils down to a rinse slash repeat of "No, Cas!" and "Yes, Dean!" because you're literally two years old despite puberty hitting you up in all the important places and that's the extent of your communication skills. Like, he's not even asking questions? Not that…not that you _want_ him to, obviously, but usually, you'd have a better chance of parting the Red fucking Sea before avoiding any flavor of awkward when it comes to Cas. Instead, everything's just…normal?

Wait, this isn't _bothering_ you, is it?

That's one Pandora's box you ain't willing to open, so you flip those blinds shut and crawl back into bed. Maybe you're being a fucking baby about it, but hell if you care. Way you see it, you got every reason to be cranky with your head on fire and feeling green around the gills but also horny as fuck and holy shit it's like you're goddamn pregnant. Seriously. It's like your dick's regressed to junior high where it's all systems go whether you're ready to launch or not. And much as you'd prefer to close your eyes and wish your boner away, that only makes it worse 'cause you can't seem to get your mind off of Cas and that lightning-in-a-bottle blue that zaps through you like a live wire, turning you all kinds of stupid-hot.

You groan as you curl up into yourself, tossing every which way to find a position where you're least uncomfortable, but when you roll over onto your stomach and shiver at the friction of your dick rubbing up against the sheets, you realize this ain't a bomb you're gonna defuse.

It takes a whole ten seconds of dry humping the mattress—because _ohjesusfuck_ you're just classy like that—before your upstairs brain butts in with the bright idea that maybe you should move this to the bathroom where you can actually, y'know, lock the door. 'Cause, yeah, genius. What if Cas walks in on you?

Your actual answer to that…not so bright. Not when your breath hitches and your balls tighten at the thought of him catching you all flushed and greased up and you are _so_ not thinking about this right now. That's…that's great. Awesome. Glad to know your downstairs brain has an opinion 'bout that, too.

You know what? Fuck it. At this point, you'll need a forklift to hoist you off the bed, and if you don't do something quick, your hard-on's about to turn the pleasure into a world of pain. You barely paw at your briefs before you're slipping a hand down under, groping at your balls and taking your dick into the heat of your palm. A couple of jerks, and you're already slick, smearing a thumb across the head as you suck on your bottom lip and— _fuck, almighty—_ there's no stopping you from biting into your pillow and making all sorts of NC-17 noises now.

But when you come—way, _way_ faster than any thirty-five-year-old dude should feel comfortable admitting—you've got it narrowed down to one singular thought that may or may not involve moaning your best friend's name.

Shit.

It's definitely a big deal.

*****

A few much-needed Z's later, most of the color's returned to your face. Bonus: you even feel like raiding the fridge for something that your stomach'll hopefully take kindly to. You stay away from the sausage for dumb reasons you refuse to name, but eggs, you can do.

You're about to rinse off your plate, but when you hear the turn of the lock, you spring for the bed, scrambling underneath the covers before the door swings open. You hold your breath as you hear Cas plod on over to the kitchen area, paper bags crinkling as he sets them on the table. He goes about his business as you peep one eye open, and just when you think he hasn't given so much as a nod in your direction, it's like something pings his radar and—shit, he's zeroing in on you; abort, _abort._

Unfortunately, pretending to hit the snooze doesn't fool him. "How are you feeling?"

You groan into your pillow, and no, you haven't forgotten the choice words you were panting into it only hours earlier. "How you think?"

It's harsher than you mean it to sound, but apparently, it don't deter him from leaning over and putting a palm to your forehead. You ain't gonna give him the chance to follow it up with a kiss like your mom used to do, so you slap his hand away. "Dude."

"You're not as warm as I would expect."

And what, he's suddenly an expert? He's not exactly using science with that method. "Think it might not be food poisoning after all," you say, yanking the covers up as far as they'll go. They're the only barrier between you and Cas, and you're clinging to them, dammit. "Might be some sorta bug instead."

"You…ate a bug?"

"I mean stomach virus, dipwad. Flu." Cripes. Guy gives you more material to work with than an entire anthology of blond jokes. And shut up; no, it's not like you _like_ that about the doofus. "Could go on for days; who knows. Quarantine might not be a bad idea. Don't want you or Sam sick, too."

He hums like he's deep in thought, not the least bit fazed by the increasing level of pissiness in your tone. "Perhaps these will help."

Curiosity gets the better of you, though, sitting up in bed as you watch him dig through the bags and retrieve a couple cans of Campbell's, some ginger ale, a box of crackers, and…a thermometer? How did—when did he—never mind. Ugh, between him and Sam, it's like they're on some kinda full-time _Daddy Daycare_ kick. For chrissakes, you're a grown-ass man. Hair of the dog and some peace and quiet is all you really need.

"'Preciate the thought, Cas," you say as your head flops back onto your pillow, heaving a sigh that's not so appreciative, "but doubt I'll be able to hold anything down right now."

"You appear to have eaten the leftovers from this morning."

Why can't he just buy the lie and leave you alone? "Yeah, well, they came right back up."

"Then we should at least take your temperature so we know if you have a fever. I purchased some petroleum jelly so you'll be able to get a more accurate reading."

Accurate? Wait, what?

Before you even have time to react, Cas—the fucking _asshole—_ rips off the sheets with Vaseline-ready thermometer in hand, and you nearly crap your pants jumping straight outta bed. "Jesus Christ, Cas! If you stick that thing anywhere within ten feet of me, so help me, I will—"

"You're not truly ill, are you?"

 _Not enough to subject myself to a goddamn probing experiment,_ you wanna spit out, but something 'bout the weight of his words throws you off and has you stammering for your own. "And you… _you…_ really don't get how a hangover works, do you?"

"Apart from the fact that it's a direct consequence of your excessive drinking habits that poorly mask your inability to confront certain truths about yourself?"

That's…wow. That's one hell of a sucker punch.

You know, you're beginning to think that Han didn't have it so bad with carbon-freezing. Because when the silence hits, you're pretty sure a dip in freaking carbonite wouldn't be as horrifying as a squint so sharp it could laser right through you. This should be the part where your fight or flight instincts are kicking in—and you hate flying—but instead of flaring up and tearing a new one, you're about ready to shut down completely. Cas hasn't done a damn thing…not a _damn_ thing 'cept try to be there for you, and your dumb ass don't know how to deal with that. So you don't.

Till Cas doesn't let you get away with that, either.

Whatever topsy-turvy, don't-know-heads-from-tails daze you're stuck in, he snaps you out of it, clutching your shoulder and ordering you to sit down in one of the crummy motel chairs while he heads for the john. Is this supposed to be some sorta intervention, or…?

The only answer you get when he returns is a wet, hot towel to the face. "The fuck, dude?"

"You look terrible and need a shave." Gee, don't sugarcoat it. "You're less convincing as a member of law enforcement with an unkempt appearance."

"Cas, c'mon…I'm not a fucking five-year-old." Pleading don't stop him from draping an even bigger towel around you, though—or from nagging about keeping the wet one on your face. You barely resist an eye roll when he explains it's "critical for softening the hair follicles."

"No, five-year-olds do not possess the necessary level of testosterone to grow facial hair." Bill Nye, ladies and gentlemen. "However, I've encountered five-year-olds who are well-mannered enough to sit quietly for more than three seconds."

Snapping back at him isn't as effective when you've got bits of towel stuck to your mouth. "Still doesn't explain why the hell you gotta be treating me like some snot-nosed kid."

He reaches for an empty mug, filling it with soap and using one of those old-fashioned shaving brushes to whip it into a froth. "We need your help in solving this case. And the sooner we solve this case, the sooner we can get you back home."

You jerk the wet towel away. "That all you care about?"

He stills as the brush clinks against the edge of the cup, his jaw tensing. "You shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, I know, Doc Brown. The whole timey-wimey thing."

"You're quoting the wrong Doctor."

"Oh, and now your punk ass is schooling me on pop culture?"

He sighs, kneeling down and scooping up a dollop of soap, slopping it against your cheek to get a decent lather going. It's weird, this whole _Barber of Seville_ thing, but…nice, you guess. But still weird.

"You can't avoid it forever," he says. "Going back." Something curls up in your gut, 'cept you're not certain it has anything to do with those eggs you ate. "Sam needs you."

"What? Sam's fine. Sammy's got his big boy diapers. Fact, I'm starting to think he's more on board with this than you are."

Cas doesn't say anything to that. Surprise, surprise.

"You know I ain't leavin' Sam. Ever. Wherever I go, he goes. But what's Sam got to do with this, anyway?"

He's quiet for a moment, motioning for you to tip your chin upwards to get at the scraggly hairs underneath. "He may not always express as much—mostly because you refuse to have an emotional capacity beyond that of a boulder—but he is grateful to have an older brother looking out for him. As pig-headed as that brother may be." You snort, curbing the smile worming its way up. He's got a funny idea of how compliments work. "And after all is said and done, that's all you really have, isn't it? Family?"

"What? Like you're not?" You glance down at him, but his eyes don't meet yours. "What about you?" The creak in your jaw acts up as you swallow. "What about…"

And dammit, there it is again— _"us"—_ right at the tip of your tongue, but fuck if you even know what it means. He tells you to turn your head, jerks your chin to the side before you have a chance to put it to words. You end up choking it back down.

"What about me?" he eventually asks.

Like he doesn't know. Like he doesn't… _fuck._ Your hand balls into a fist, blood simmering to a light boil. When you're not sure what's got you more on edge—the topic of conversation or Cas going all Sweeney Todd on you—hell, the anger's almost comforting. "Who do you think's trying to look out for what you need, huh? Why do you think I yanked Sam by the pigtails and hauled ass back to 1947 in the first place?"

"My needs are irrelevant."

"Oh, really? You didn't need us to bail you out?"

"As I recall, I was the one who did the bailing—"

"And you don't need to track down Bart, figure out why he's here? Don't need to get heaven shipshape again and punt that dick back to Genesis? You don't need… _us?_ " Something skitters across his face, unsettles his shoulders enough that he turns away, but you snatch his wrist and grip it tight. "Don't you dare tell me you don't got a stake in this, too. Don't you _dare_ tell me that it don't matter."

"I…" Cas lowers his gaze. "Need you to sit still."

His voice ain't the only thing cracking.

You let him go about the rest of his task in silence. As he scrubs at the other half of your jawline, he steers clear of eye contact, even though you get the strange feeling he's stealing a glance every time you're not looking. And when he runs a thumb over your lips to wipe off the extra foam, the nerves under your skin a little too aware at just how long it lingers, you find yourself remembering how that same thumb was rubbing your own when he told you he wanted an "us."

Maybe you're not the only one saying stuff you weren't supposed to mean.

He draws out a straight blade, using the underside of a leather belt for honing. Guess you're really doing it old school, but does he honestly plan on wielding that thing on you himself? "Cas, this is fucking ridiculous. Fork over the razor; I can take care of myself."

"Can, yes. Will you?"

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

"For now. But for how long?" Once more, he kneels down at your feet, raising the blade but hesitating just shy of the square of your jaw when you flinch. "You give and give until you have nothing left, Dean. But who's looking after you?"

There's no avoiding his gaze now, not with those eyes that always look like they're taking you in for the first time, pinning you down till you're squirming in your seat. "Yeah, I get it; gotta learn to take my own medicine. But seriously, Cas, just—"

You attempt to wrestle away, but he squeezes your leg good 'n' firm as a warning. "May I remind you that I am holding a very sharp blade to your throat?"

That's one way to get you to can it.

For a guy who's spent the entirety of his angelic career bum-rushing through doors and smiting the crap outta things, you'd expect a couple unwanted nicks and cuts, that familiar razor sting when it catches on your skin. But even though the dude's bedside manner leaves something to be desired most days, he's taking his time now, running that blade down the side of your cheek in slow, short movements like he's chipping away at all your jagged edges. He scrapes off the scruff, the dirt, the mess, and little by little, you find your lungs feeling lighter with every bit that disappears.

Maybe if you wish hard enough, it could all disappear.

You don't care if your eyes drift shut; if the only thing you focus on is the fingers that press along the hard line of your jaw, that trace the dip just above your mouth and the slope of your neck. You've never really noticed it before—how the same hands that used to torch demons with holy fire could be so fucking _gentle—_ and you're beginning to wonder if all those touches he's slipped down an arm or palmed across the shoulder over the years were less a means to grab your attention and more a need to grab hold of something. To know he's got someone there to anchor him; to feel…shit, just to feel _close_ to someone for once.

Or maybe…maybe that's just how _you_ feel. 'Cause although a part of you's got the urge to tell him that you ain't some china doll and this isn't some sappy Travolta flick, maybe deep down…deep, _deep_ down…you're hungry for it. Craving every little stroke of skin, every bit of contact just as much as he seems to be savoring it. God, you shouldn't want it, but you _do._ And it scares you shitless.

Because nothing good ever happens when good things happen.

Your throat's gone dry by the time you manage to speak up again. "'Bout what you were sayin' earlier…" A swallow goes down hard when a finger grazes the back of your ear, nudges your chin into a tilt. "You want your truth, Cas? I'm screwed. I'm fucked to hell, man. And anyone stupid enough to tag along is only gonna earn themselves the same fate."

Grunting softly, he removes the last patch of stubble next to your Adam's apple before inspecting his work. "That's not my truth. It may, sadly, be yours. But not mine."

"So what is?"

He fetches another damp towel and cups it around your face, letting the heat settle there, sink into your aching bones till he wipes you so smooth that you might almost believe you're a new man.

"That Dean Winchester deserves to be saved."

A few splashes of aftershave follow, the mild, woody scent flooding your senses as his thumbs run circles along the clean-shaven skin. Even after the job's done, his hands keep you close, steady, and Christ, you can't help but lean into it. You bury your face into his palm, lips mapping the calluses, the grooves, the life he was never meant to have. Hell, the life _you_ were never meant to have, and it's got you asking yourself why he'd ever want to go in after you in the first place; why he didn't just leave you down there to rot. What's your sorry ass ever done for him, anyway? He was there—he'd heard the other angels same as you. Your touch corrupts. You destroy the things you love. He's only cursed because of you.

But then he says your name, crackling to life like an old transistor radio, and you glance up, the light peeking through the blinds setting him aglow. His knuckles sweep across your temple before resting at your shoulder, and you think that this is 'bout as close as you'll ever get to a proper baptism. You close your eyes and breathe in, remembering those nights you spent with head bowed in an empty room, kissing his hand in the way you wish you could have prayed to him; the way you wish you had told him you needed him. The way you wish you could have picked up the pieces after he broke trying to glue you back together.

Yet here you are, the dumb sonuvabitch stitching you right up again.

If there's anything left of you that is worth saving, he can have it.

Slowly, you pull yourself up, tugging at the hem of his shirt as you slink your arms around his waist. "Cas, you fucking idiot," you tell him as you push your nose up against his, and it sounds dangerously like an _I love you._ "Why did you fall for me?"

"I didn't." It feels like the actual sun on your skin when all the air rushes out of him, and you swear your heart's gonna punch a hole straight through your chest. "I jumped."

Well, hell, then. Geronimo, baby.

You know damn well you're playing with fire when you press in, the brush of your lips like the strike of a match, but when Cas digs his fingers into your hair and teases you open to score himself a well-deserved moan, he's one hundred percent heat and none of the burn. Jesus, where'd he learn how to make out like a porn star? Because with all the gasps, the biting, the things he's doing with his tongue—fuck, the things he _could_ do with his tongue—you ain't so sure you know the difference between kissin' and breathin' anymore.

And when your jaw falls slack, whiffs of his cologne and your aftershave going right to your head, you swear you might be weightless altogether.

You nudge him with your cheek. "How's it feel? Pass the test?"

It nearly tickles when he hums against you, giving you a small peck as the ol' rubber stamp of approval. "You should let me groom you more often."

You chuckle into the curve of his mouth, snagging him by the belt loop, but when it's his breath on your parted lips, it's Cas that lures you in hook, line, and sinker. You're needy, you're so fucking needy, and you hate it, hate that— _fuck—_ that he got under your skin like this. But when you kiss him—God, when you _kiss_ him—suddenly, it makes sense. Or nothing makes sense. Because it's Cas. _Cas._ Your fucking best friend, and—no…no, it _all_ makes sense. How it's too easy to lean into him, to just…fucking _give in,_ man. How you don't even think twice to fumble for his zipper and reach around to squeeze a piece of that ass. Fuck, are you thinking at all? 'Cause when he grinds his hips up against you, you don't remember the last time you felt like…like _this,_ with nothing more than a pair of skivvies between you and his dick, and…oh, fuck. _Fuck._ This isn't just a fantasy anymore; this is—

Holy shit, this is actually making you _hard._

Soon as you tense up, Cas backs down. "Dean, if you need to stop…"

He trails off the moment his eyes dart to where you lick your lips, and it sends your heart racing. To hell with what you need. You _want_ this. You want…fuck, you want _him._

You yank him back by his unbuttoned waistcoat. "Just shut up," you pant into his mouth, begging for whatever scrap of sanity you have left. "Please, shut up."

Turns out six years of pent-up frustration is an absolute bitch. He snarls as he shoves you up against the wall—oh _hell_ yes—raking his teeth down your neck and sucking at your collarbone till it bruises you up real nice and pretty. The bastard forces you to whimper for more, driving a knee between your thighs as it drags up against your dick, and God, you don't let him down. His lips graze the angle of your jaw, tug at your ear as you palm your hands down his sides, finding the rhythm of his hips again. Christ, the blood surge is almost unbearable now, your dick thick and throbbing with every pulse. The thought—shit, the _feeling_ of him getting stiff as he ruts up against you, that this is just as much a turn-on for him as it is for you…jesus _fuck,_ all you can do is hold on and hope this isn't going to be over before it ever really starts.

But that don't stop you from getting greedy, needing that skin-on-skin action you know he's all too willing to give away. You cup his hand around your junk, let him rub against the cotton and feel how primed and rarin' to go you are for him; how _wet_ you are for him. Luckily, it ain't but two seconds before he's taking his own initiative, sliding down the elastic as the warmth coils up in your gut, setting off your insides like a whole damn packet of Pop Rocks when your briefs finally slip over the tip of your dick.

There's a shiver at the base of your spine when he presses a mouth to your ear. "What do you want me to do, Dean?"

" _Touch_ me," you growl at him, those two words all but torn to shreds from lust, cock heavy and twitching with anticipation. "Use those beautiful magic hands of yours."

And finally—God, _finally—_ you feel that tingle that goes straight to your toes when he strokes up your length for the first time. He gives you a few lazy pumps, but before you can bitch about how slow he's going at it, he ups the pace and flexes his grip tight on your dick—though you're not exactly quiet about that, neither. You don't know how he does it, brushing a palm over the head just enough to make you break out in goose bumps and never enough to tip you over the edge, but fuck, the total _control_ he has over you right now is driving you crazy. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, watching him as he greases up his thumb where you're beading at the tip, pressing it right down the slit. And you'll just have to face facts: no amount of resistance is gonna stop that pathetic, strangled whine of yours from escaping, your head rolling back against the wall as you gasp for breath. "Cas… _Cas._ Need— _shit—_ need to feel you, too."

He moans a ten-four before easing up, and you get a real eyeful as he shrugs out of his pants and boxer briefs, flicking your tongue over your lips when his dick bobs out like he's the literal definition of cocky: a slight bend up and to the left, shameless in the way only Adam coulda been before eating that forbidden fruit. God, you never thought you'd use this word to describe a fucking cock, and you must be ten kinds of delirious if you are, but Jesus, he's gorgeous. Fucking _glistening,_ even.

Ironically, the Vaseline Cas picked up comes in handy after all, and for a split second, you wonder if getting you hot and bothered might've been his plan the whole time. After last night, he had to've figured his chances were lookin' good, and you wouldn't put it past the little shit to sneak up on you like that. But even if it's a potter, clay kinda thing, hell, he can mold you into whatever he wants; the amount of fucks you give turns down to zero when he oils you up and—Jesus _Christ—_ you almost bite your lip hard enough to draw blood the moment you feel the inside of his fist and the head of his dick rubbing up against yours. Fuck, this is really happening; it's really— _fuck._

He works the both of you over till you're a slippery, heaving wreck, too far out of your mind to know if the things spilling out of your mouth are praises or curses. Shit, you're not just out of your mind; you're on the friggin' astral plane when you thrust up into that sloppy mess of a fist and let him squeeze you against the rock-hard pulse of his own dick. It's a miracle you're able to prop yourself up at all, the fucker twisting his hand down your shaft and fingering you in all the places that make you weak in the knees. You push your forehead up against his sweat-soaked hairline and kiss him there, if only to catch your breath, groaning as he trails down to the hollow of your neck and caving into the wet heat of his open mouth and the scratch of his stubble on your skin. Fuck, the things you didn't even _know_ you wanted, and he's still finding ways of giving them to you. And when you feel the tug of your dick again, your heart begins to creep up into your throat, recognizing the telltale buildup, the stretch in your groin and the swell at the base of your cock, and all you can think about is how Cas is so incredibly wrong about you. You don't give; you only take and take and then take some more, but it feels too damn good to stop and— _fuck—_ you don't fucking care. You don't fucking care and you want this and oh God you don't _want_ to fucking care.

Till that wave of revelation comes, moaning his name like it's your goddamn mantra one aftershock after another, nothing but those baby blues in your sights.

And suddenly, you care too much.

You can't even bring yourself to finish him off, barely able to stand the reek of your own jizz. "I should…I'm gonna…bathroom."

It doesn't fully sink in till you hit the shower, the spray of water like needles on your back as you crank up the cold. It gets so fucking cold that it starts to itch under your skin, and you scrub at it, get yourself all soaped up, but you still can't get rid of that damn itch. So you scrub faster, harder, your skin turning an ugly, blotchy kind of red, and—and, _fuck,_ there's so much red. You want to scrub the red out, too; you want to scrub it _all_ out, but then the itching turns into gnawing, an ache that burrows deep down in your ribs, and before you can steel yourself, you're choking out a sob without a single fucking clue why. You grit your teeth through the tears and tell yourself that it don't matter; you'll just claw it out of you, claw at it till you're bleeding and in so much pain that you can't feel it itch anymore. Till you can't remember what the red looks like.

But then you glance down again, and it's too late.

Your hands are red and your arm is itching and _it's too fucking late._

"Dean, are you all right?" Your head jerks when you hear Cas' muffled voice. "You've been in there for a while."

"Yeah…'m—" Words come out all dry and hoarse, and you take longer than you should to clear your throat. "Be out in a sec."

You need to smack yourself out of this stupid pity party, get back down to business, but once you stumble out of the bathroom, turns out Cas is already ahead of you, checking his piece and strapping on his leather holster. Guess that's your cue to exercise your three-step program for moving on:

Deny, deny, deny.

"So you talked to Sam earlier 'bout the case?" you ask, ramming a new magazine into the Colt. If Cas notices that your tone's rougher around the edges than you intended, well, you ain't lookin' at him to see his reaction, anyway.

"He actually called while you were showering off; he's at a café a few blocks from here. I told him you'd be joining us." When you don't say anything, he adds, "They close in a half-hour, so we should hurry."

"Yeah. Good idea."

It's the only one either of you's had all day.

You watch him as he throws on his overcoat, nothing but the sound of rustling fabric between the two of you as he adjusts his feather-tipped fedora. "Cas, uh…" You idly tap your fingers on the table, tongue growing thick in the back of your mouth. "Maybe it's best that this thing—"

"Didn't happen?"

A lump in your throat rises up quicker than you'd like to admit, pulling at a lapel and popping your collar. "Glad to see we're on the same page."

Before you can reach for the knob, he puts a hand to the door. "What about what you said yesterday? What about no drama?"

You plaster on a grin. "Exactly why I'm wiping the slate clean."

Again, he blocks your way when you make a move. If he tries that a third time, you're not gonna be responsible for any limbs you have to rip off in order to get out the freaking door. "I'm tired of going in circles, Dean. Don't you see? This… _this_ is what we'll always come back to. We'll always end up here. And I don't want to suffer through countless renditions of the same dance."

"'We'll always end up here'?" Your eyebrows crumple together. "The hell you mean? You say that like this wasn't a one-time thing."

"Was it?"

There's a million things you could spout off. You got caught up in the moment. You were experimenting. You just needed to clean the pipes.

None of 'em's the right answer.

Cas sighs. Maybe 'cause he can't take the quiet. "If you don't want to talk about it now, that's fine. You need time to digest; I understand. Sometimes, I forget I'm much further along in the process than you are."

"Oh, because you're the Dalai fucking Lama?"

"No, that's absurd. Even if I were still an angel, his vessel would neither be willing nor compatible." And that's neither useful nor interesting. "I simply have the advantage of making up my mind a long time ago."

Awesome. More cryptic shit. You're not gonna ask him to spill it out in laymen's terms, though, not when your head's already swimming in too many thoughts and not anywhere near enough liquor. "Okay, well, we got a case to get to, so…"

"Just…" A palm slips up into the crook of your arm and grips you there. "Don't do yourself the disservice of pretending it never happened. The past is not something within the realm of our control."

You're about to rattle off on him, tell him there is nothing to process—zero, zilch, bupkis, nada—but you decide to keep your lid shut, fixating on the stain in the carpet as you brush a thumb down your nose. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

"Dean." He grabs you by the cheek. "Whether or not this is a real thing, I meant everything I said. _Everything._ "

You nearly bite the inside of your mouth, ignoring the sudden prickle in your eyes. "Can we just…go, please?"

Finally, he nods, but when he lets down his hand, there's no wave of relief that washes over you.

Outside, the weather's just as shitty as you feel, equal parts cold and miserable as a heavy rain takes a dump over downtown San Francisco. Cas fiddles with an umbrella until it pops open, and without a word, he gestures towards you, offering the one half. You consider telling him you're fine with the brim of your hat, but instead find yourself ducking under cover as you fall in line with the shuffle of his feet.

If your shoulders rub against each other most of the way down the street, you don't bother pointing that out, either.


	13. The Judas Iscariot Affair

Sam waves you over when you enter the café down on the corner, tromping in the mud from the rain as Cas wrangles in the umbrella. "Wow, I'm impressed," he says once you and Cas pull up a chair opposite him. "What'd you do to make him come?"

You immediately bristle up, almost choking on your water. Goddammit, Sam. _Phrasing._ "What? Like I need a reason?" Fuck, you hope your cheeks don't look as red hot as they feel. "Maybe I just wanted to. There some kinda problem with that?"

"No, of course n—wait, what?"

Unlike you, Cas is the perfect model of composure, carefully unfolding a napkin as he smooths it over in his lap. "I merely reminded him that we are here on _business_ "—he sure puts an awful lot of emphasis on the word—"and that we have precious little time to waste. The longer we stay here, the more we put the future at risk."

Sam starts to mouth an _O-kay,_ but he's got an eyebrow cocked. You offer up a shaky smile and a sorry excuse for a chuckle. "What can I say? Nerdy little guy's, uh…persuasive." Now even Cas is matching Sam brow-for-brow. "Well, I mean, not _little—_ " Oh, God, stop. "I mean, not…I mean height-wise, not like—"

No, really. _Shut. Your damn. Piehole._

You shove your nose in the menu, clearing your throat. "So how's Hot Velma?"

"Right." Sam's eyes're still screwed up at you, but he lets it go. Thank God. "Um, funny story, actually."

Good, 'cause you could use a laugh. Preferably the kind after you've got a few double whiskeys in you, but they don't even serve cruddy, generic light beer here.

"So we're at dinner last night, and I know she's in town for an art auction, so I ask her how that went. I find out her entire family is kinda big on the art thing—opened up a gallery in L.A. about two months ago." There's a bologna and mustard sandwich that sounds more exciting than this. "Guess what her last name is?"

You wave your hand to get on with it. "What, are we playing twenty questions here?"

He leans forward, getting all antsy in his seat. "Blake."

"That s'posed to mean something?"

Apparently, that's a yes; Sam almost looks offended with that nose twitch of his. "You don't even remember her first name, do you?" Unless a chick's done something worth remembering—like, you dunno, turning your brother into some blood junkie—no, you usually don't. "Sarah. Sarah _Blake._ "

You lower your menu. Okay, forget the bologna sandwich. "That spitfire you were all googly-eyed over years ago and helped us out on that killer portrait case? Snuffed by Crowley? That Sarah Blake?"

"I wasn't 'googly-eyed' over her."

"Yeah, and it wasn't your hairy ass she was moonin' over, either."

He huffs out a sigh. "Okay, so, yeah, maybe she was nice, or…whatever, but that's not the point. Point is, I think this Sarah might be twenty-first-century Sarah's great aunt. I remember her saying something about how she was named after her."

"Yeah? Well, attaboy, Sammy." You reach around the table and slap him on the shoulder with a wink. "Way to make Dustin Hoffman eat his heart out."

"Ugh, Dean, don't go there."

"Why not? Great aunt or not, girl's a babe, _and_ she likes your dopey face. You honestly gonna let something like that slip through your fingers?"

"Because…do I seriously have to list out the thousands of reasons why that would be a _really_ bad idea?"

"You and twenty-first-century Sarah never got past first base, though, right? So what? Worst case scenario, you got a Luke/Leia situation."

Sam gawks at you like he can't believe the two of you are related. Feeling's mutual. "Okay, first off, I don't even want to think about what you're implying. Second, there's more issues than just… _that._ Third, can we get back to discussing the case?"

"Hey, just trying to give you a little nudge, is all. You wouldn't have even hooked up with the chick if I hadn't worked my magic."

"Yeah, if by 'magic,' you mean lying about losing your wallet and then dragging me back to the auction house to _not_ look for it."

"You wish I hadn't?" He crosses his arms and snorts, but he don't say nothin' else. Yeah. That's what you thought. "You forget how well I know you. You've got the adorable puppy thing going for you, but you never did know how to catch your own damn tail."

"Think I did just fine with Jess, thanks."

"Pretty sure you said you had to beg your ol' college bro, Brady, for a kegger invite before you could stand to be in the same room with her without wetting yourself."

"And what about Amelia?"

"Way I hear it, you got a dog to thank for that."

Your brother's only comeback is an eye roll. Probably holding back a pouty lip, too.

"'Sall right, Sammy; I got your back. God knows I know more than enough about women for the both of us." You're about to reach for another sip of water when you accidentally catch Cas' gaze and freeze up on the spot. Except for silverware clinking and ladies gossiping, it gets dead quiet in the space between you. Like, freaky quiet, and you're not sure if you're gonna make it out of this staring match alive.

Your one saving grace is the waitress that strolls by as you flag her down. "Hey, could we get some service here?"

Once you've ordered up on cold cuts, Sam explains that he couldn't finagle too much out of Sarah without blowing his cover, but managed to find out that one of her art history professors over at UCLA had been none other than your buddy, Steven Walsh. Huh. World keeps on gettin' smaller and smaller.

"Sarah mentioned that Walsh had expressed an interest in acquiring some super old painting by a guy named Giotto," he says. "Called _The Arrest of Christ._ Or more famously, _The Kiss of Judas._ "

"Judas? The dude who sold Jesus out?"

Sam nods. "The version everybody always talks about is part of a mural in the Scrovegni Chapel in Italy, but there was actually an original that Giotto had painted before the chapel's construction. That's the one Walsh was hoping to get his hands on, but the bid he made on it fell through, and instead, it ended up at the Legion of Honor art museum here in San Francisco."

After the waitress swings by with your grub, you just shrug your shoulders at him. "What's strange about that? The guy's a friggin' antique collector. He's probably got loads of Renaissance nudies at home."

Your brother whips out a copy of the _San Francisco Chronicle_ from a few days ago and forks it over, drawing your attention to the headline:

_2 GUARDS BRUTALLY MURDERED IN 'JUDAS' ART HEIST_

"And if I remember correctly," he adds, "that would've been around the time Walsh was possessed."

Well, if that ain't a giant fucking neon sign. "Okay, so I'm guessing this isn't a coincidence, but why would demons want some crummy painting? They aren't exactly what I'd peg as 'cultured.' And does that mean Bart's trying to track this thing down, too?"

"Seems like a safe bet to make. I checked out that off-the-map bookstore Sarah pointed me to, and from what I could piece together, I think there may be a link between this painting and the Knights of the Black Lodge. Sources say the painting was finished right before the dissolution of the Knights Templar order—except that there are rumors that the order may have not vanished completely. Those type of allegations are pretty common in Freemasonry, but there was one sect of the old order in particular that inspired the birth of these Black Lodge guys."

"So Frank wasn't bullshitting us. Didn't he say something about how they weren't kosher and the other lodges kicked them out? You figure out why?"

"'Not kosher' is putting it lightly. More like straight-up heretical. According to the text, they worshipped the deity Abrasax, and in order to summon him and his power, they would perform rituals using—I shit you not—sex magick. As well as your token blood sacrifice."

"Kinky," you say with a mouthful of roast beef. "So that explains the weird rooster/snake doodle on Walsh's ring, but how's all that connect to the painting?"

"There's more." He shifts in his seat, pinching his eyebrows together as he glances down at the coffee you know he finished off minutes ago. "The, uh, sect that the Knights of the Black Lodge derived their practices from…"

"What, Sam?"

"Well, um…" He hesitates before taking a breath. "They were known as Cainites."

"Cainites?" Your brain shorts out before you even have a chance to process. "What, like Cain? _The_ Cain? Father of Murder?"

"One and the same, unfortunately. Cain was kinda like an idol to them. Remember how I was telling you that Gnosticism involves a bunch of opposites? Good and evil; order and chaos; spiritual and material? See, the Cainites had this idea that they were spiritual beings trapped in bodies of flesh, and the only way for them to obtain salvation is through reincarnation, more or less. They thought that the path to gnosis—or perfect knowledge—required passing through all of life's experiences in the material world first before they could return to the spiritual world, and that includes murder and all thirty-one flavors of debauchery. Naturally, they justified it by claiming they were doing the work of whatever angel they had called upon."

"Yeah, or demon."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly."

"Awesome. So we're dealing with Old Testament shit again?"

"Old and New," he says. "Seems like Judas was pretty highly regarded by the Cainites as well. In fact, so much that their gospel states that Judas was the only disciple to achieve full gnosis. They believed that his traitorous actions demonstrated that he understood Jesus' true intentions in bringing salvation to all of humankind."

"So, what then? They want this Judas painting for their shrine?"

"Guess is as good as mine."

You rub at your temple. God, you're already feeling the headache with this one, though you don't know if it's the dull pain or how Cas' elbow bumps up against your arm that makes you scowl at him. "You know anything about this Cainite stuff?"

"I'm afraid I was busy at the time."

Your eyes narrow at him. "In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries?"

"Surely you've heard of the Crusades?" He stares at you like you've got _dumbass_ stamped on your face. "Like watching monkeys orchestrate a traveling circus. Your so-called wars of today aren't much different."

"History's a fucking merry-go-round. You get used to it."

Cas lets out an annoyed little grunt. "I can neither confirm nor deny the information Sam has procured on these Cainites—accounts are inconsistent, even among angels—but it doesn't directly contradict anything I've heard."

"Don't you guys just"—you wiggle your fingers out from your forehead—"into each other's brains?"

"As I've told you before, angels are not omniscient. Although we do pool our knowledge to the best of our capacity, our experiences vary based on our assignments and where we're stationed. We cannot read minds unless we're given the permission to do so."

"Well, thank God for that."

It comes out a little too loud, a little too quick, and you're biting your tongue for even saying it. Course, then Cas has to go and fucking _elaborate._ "However, there are instances where having a deeper bond with someone may allow for a more efficient, more profound transference of thoughts and feelings. One might liken it to empathy," he says coolly, his eyes drifting in your direction. "Or perhaps the intimate act of human bodies intertwining in sexual congress."

If your cheeks weren't red before, they're flaming tamales now.

"In any case," he continues when he figures the point's stuck and you've realized your ass is a damn pincushion, "I regret that I do not have more to say on the subject, apart from the fact that Lucifer used Judas as a catalyst in the events leading up to Judgment Day."

You throw up a hand before letting it slap back down on the table. Minor detail, really. "The devil's right-hand man; that's just…fantastic. So basically we gotta figure out where this painting is and why they want it so bad."

"At this point, seems to be our only hope of making sense of all this," Sam says. "Sounds like that art museum is our next stop."

"Crud, this really is turning out to be _The Da Vinci Code._ " You poke at the remainder of your potato chips. Guess you still don't have as much of an appetite as you thought. "Ugh. Was hoping for something less old dudes having orgies and more…y'know. Shiny."

You're gonna wipe that smug-ass grin off your brother's face if it gets any bigger. "Sorry, Dean. Don't think you're gonna dig up any buried treasure with this one."

Sam excuses himself and heads for the john, leaving you and Cas to deal with the awkward silence that falls. And by dealing with it, you mean stabbing your pickle spear with a toothpick.

"Dean—"

"I told you, Cas; I don't want to—"

"I was going to ask you to pass the salt."

"Oh."

You watch him sprinkle a bit on his fries, then down the rest of his coffee before he reaches for the paper to skim the headlines. You keep waiting for him to say something, anything, but he doesn't make a damn peep—just flips right on over to the second page. Maybe Cas is testing you, the way he's gone completely blank. Can't read 'im for shit. But Cas sucks with people; he don't know how to manipulate like that.

Or maybe that's just what he _wants_ you to think.

Okay, so maybe you didn't even do him the courtesy of… _y'know…_ back at the motel, and that would give any guy reason to be pissed. But when Cas is pissed, you know he's pissed; he ain't shy about giving you a piece of his mind. Now it's like one minute, he's all soft and doe-eyed on you, and the next, it's like…you don't even exist? How can he just turn it off like that?

Why can't _you_ turn it off?

You don't notice how long you've been staring till Sam catches you off-guard with a light tap of the shoulder before sitting back down; usually, you can hear his Clydesdale feet a mile away. Instead of acknowledging him, though, you go back to maiming your pickle, knee bouncing up and down because it's all you can do to keep yourself together. For chrissakes, Winchester, stop acting like a fucking chick.

"Who are Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen?" Cas suddenly asks.

Sam's jaw drops. "You're kidding, right? They're only two of the most notorious mobsters in U.S. history."

Cas hums to himself as if something's clicked. "I suspect this 'Bugsy' will have a difficult time managing his illicit operations now that he's been murdered." His arm nudges against you once more when he shows Sam the article, the reporter dubbing Cohen as "heir apparent" to Siegel's throne.

"Jesus, yeah, 1947. I forgot about that." Sam scratches at his chin, eyebrows raised towards you. "How about that, Dean? We're witnessing real history here. It's no _Last Crusade,_ but that's pretty cool, right?"

"Yeah, whatever." You don't have to glance up to know your brother's shooting x-rays straight through your skull. He knows damn well how much you loved watching those old gangster movies as a kid; how the biographies on Capone and Costello were the only kind of non-fiction reading you did, but honestly, gangsters don't seem all that important when that dumb arm is still getting all up in your space. Much as you try to give Cas a hint by sliding over to one end of the table, he just closes in on you again.

"Bugsy." Cas shakes his head as Sam hands the newspaper back. "What an odd name."

You let out a scoff. _Like you're one to talk,_ you say, or maybe you only think it, still avoiding the eye Sam's got on you. Cas mentions something about Eliot Ness running for mayor—Cleveland, maybe, which sounds about right—but it's hard to hear over the grinding of your teeth when his arm keeps brushing up against yours, almost like he's trying to find any excuse to do it—seriously, why won't he stop _touching_ you?—and after sensing every little scratch, every little rub, you can't take it anymore.

"Jesus Christ, Cas, could you give a guy two fucking inches of room? Stop crowding me!"

Soon as the words spew out, it's like the entire restaurant's come to a screeching halt. Even the goddamn busboy almost drops his tray in the middle of all the rubbernecking. And Cas…Cas just _looks_ at you, mouth hanging wide open as you're scrambling for the first coherent thought, but when you fail to save face, he simply folds up the paper and scoots his chair away. "My apologies. Next time, I'll sit at a separate table."

Cas slips off to pay the cashier, leaving you to deal with Little Miss Bitchface. "Dude, what the hell is going on with you?" Sam hisses. "You're being a real dick!"

You nearly bark at him and say you are what you eat, but oh, that… _that_ just knocks you up to whole new level of uncomfortable territory when your body's flashing you signals that—surprise!—guess what made the dirty shit you'd do to Cas list? "Nothing's going on, okay? Just riding out a hangover. Think the pounding headache entitles me to be cranky."

He snorts like he's begging to differ. "Yeah, heard you got pretty plastered last night."

Your back snaps straight up, heart thumping against your chest. Winchester, you dumbass; why'd you have to go and say _that?_ "What, you talk to Cas? What else did he tell you?" You're not sweating, are you? Can he see you sweating? Oh, God, he can _smell_ the fear on you, can't he?

"Nothing, just…" he purses his lips, "…that you spent a good amount of time kneeling at the porcelain altar."

Oh, thank _fuck._

"Seriously, Dean." Elbows planted on the table, he bends forward, trying to reel you in. "You all right? I mean, the BAC limit's probably your factory setting these days, but getting drunk enough to hurl…that doesn't even happen once in a blue moon for you. Wasn't yesterday supposed to be about taking a breather and, you know, _not_ stressing out?"

"Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but the only thing stressing me out right now? Is this conversation!"

"Really? Because it looks like you're falling into another one of your…wait." Crap. Oh, _crap._ He's onto you. "Did something happen between you and Cas?"

Your mouth forms about twenty different shapes before you finally get the tongue working. "Me 'n' Cas? Oh, yeah, we got into a huge fight, all right. See, he wanted to be the big spoon, and—"

" _Okay,_ Dean, you can stop."

Good. The bitchface is back. If he ain't buying your bullshit, might as well shut 'im down with even more bullshit. "Don't be such a friggin' worrywart, Samantha. I'll be fine. Must've been something I ate; that's all."

"Thought you said it was a hangover?"

"Well…whatever!" you sputter out. "I dunno what it was!"

Ironically, it's the most truth you've managed all day. This whole thing with Cas has got you tied up in so many knots, you don't know if your head's coming out your ass or the other way 'round, and when you can't easily pin it on the money or the necessity this time…what the literal fuck are you supposed to do with that, huh? Wasn't your life already complicated enough before you had to go and taste the fucking rainbow?

Thankfully, whether Sam just don't care anymore or he doesn't bother riskin' it, he seems to've lost interest in pushing your buttons. Instead, he slouches in his seat, folding his hands in his lap as he blows out a sigh. Yeah, like he's the only one who needs to release something.

"You gonna be okay working on this case?" he says a minute later, quieter now.

You squint at him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know…just…seems like it might hit a little close to home."

"What, 'cause of Cain?" He shrugs. "From what you were saying, sounds to me like we're dealing with a bunch of nutjobs here. Not the genuine article. And even if we do get into some demon on angel action, that ain't any different from our usual beat."

"I guess, yeah." There's a "but" coming, but before you mean to ask what he's getting at, you catch his eyes settling on the hand you've laid over your forearm.

So _that's_ what this is about.

You spring out of your chair, throwing on your blazer. "For the last time, Sam: I'm _fine._ " You've got some fifty odd things you consider telling him to shove—one for every bit you've had to hear the same old crud about a mark that doesn't even exist anymore—but then a small piece of paper flutters out of your breast pocket.

Sam's the first to zero in on it, brow furrowing as he crouches down to pick up what looks like a white business card. "What's this? Dr. Harlan J. Fontaine?"

You peer over at the fine print. Guy's some sort of shrink down in L.A. "What? I don't…" Wait. That broad, Elsa. She gave this to you last night after…fuck, after you made a goddamn _fool_ of yourself.

You snatch the business card out of his fingers and duck your head for the door. "Must've been in there when I bought the jacket."

He'll buy it, right?

The rain's let up by the time you meet Cas out on the street, but between the hella uncomfortable exchange of glances and the questions you know Sam's still got bouncing around in that noggin of his, you're eager to get things moving as quickly as possible. You nudge Sam in the ribs. "So why don't you and I check out that art museum, and Cas…I dunno; I'm sure you could think of something to make yourself useful, y'know. Somewhere else." You snap your fingers. "Hey, we could use some more of those magic bullets of yours."

"Actually, I've, uh…" Sam jingles his car keys in his palm. "I've got the museum covered."

Oh, does he, now? "Sarah meeting you there?" A grin tugs at the corner of your lips soon as you spot the little squirm he does. "So you _do_ like her."

" _No,_ " he says in the way he totally means yes. "I just think we'll cover more ground like this."

"Oh, I bet you'll be covering more ground." You waggle your eyebrows. "Sure I shouldn't come along and chaperon?"

"Dean, your idea of 'art' is dogs playing poker."

"C'mon, I can appreciate the finer things! What about that chick with the boobs and her arms hacked off? That's pretty sweet."

He rolls his eyes for what you're pretty sure is the billionth time today. Not that you're keeping tabs. "Yeah, I'll handle the museum. You and Cas should run over to the historical society before it closes, maybe see if anybody knows about that Mikey guy Frank was trying to recruit." He actually stops to give you the ol' once-over before adding, "If you're feeling up to it."

Un-freakin'-believable. "Can the babying crap, all right? I'm up to it."

"All right, then."

"So we're good?"

"We're good."

"Then I guess that settles it."

"Guess it does."

The two of you do the awkward shuffle dance till Sam jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm gonna…yeah. Go now."

Unfortunately, it's only after he drives away that you find yourself asking how the hell you got stuck with Cas again and can't do shit about it. You could just say fuck it—and you ain't gonna lie; these legs of yours sure are itchin' to bolt—but you're an adult, dammit. If you scram now, that means Cas got the better of you; that means you care enough to _let_ him get to you; that means whatever's between you two…actually _means_ something.

And that's one pill you're not about to swallow.

Your fist clenches at your side when you sense Cas' gaze on you, keeping your own trained straight ahead as you attempt to remember where you parked, but the Tudor's nowhere in sight. Nothing but a slight breeze, sun in your eyes as you crane your neck towards the couple lazily pedaling their bikes down the street; a mob of kids chasing after an ice cream truck playing a creepy-ass tune; some dude whistling with a bunch of red balloons in hand. If you were a fucking tourist, it'd probably seem like the whole town's walking on sunshine. But you've been around the block too often to not read a situation for what it is, and suddenly, you're getting that familiar pang in your gut.

Something ain't right about this picture.

Another wind blows through, and you hear a strange squeaking noise overhead. Probably just a rusty old sign, but every instinct's begging you not to look—not with that bad case of juju coming on. Course, you totally ignore those instincts.

And then your stomach nearly shits itself out of your ass.

Strung up on a pole in broad daylight, some poor bastard's body swings from a noose. You get those icy fingers clawing up your spine when you see the blood stains on his hands, the flies buzzing like crazy, and the head…his head's totally spazzing out like— _Jesus fucking Christ._ It's that same guy from the motel and the old factory. Wearing the same black hood. How the fuck did—

"Dean? Are we heading back to the motel? I presume we'll need transportation."

You're still staggering even after Cas' voice snaps you out of it, nearly tripping over yourself as you struggle to find your footing. Why hasn't Cas said anything about it? There's a freaking _dead body_ right above—

Wait, where _is_ the body?

When you glance back up, the only thing standing in its place is a large pole sign for some _Marv's Auto Shop._ How the hell did…the body's fucking _gone?_ But where'd it…but it was just…it was _right there!_

"Dean, are you okay?"

You barely choke down the lump in your throat. "Right…the Tudor's back at the…right. Motel." Shoving your way past Cas, you make an immediate beeline down the street. "Let's just get this over with."

You don't bother saying you're fine this time.

Because honestly, you don't even know anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Cainites were indeed a [real thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cainites), although of course I'm taking certain creative liberties. :)
> 
> Also, I realize it's technically not _the_ Sarah Blake we all know and love, but I figured it was close enough to warrant the ship tag. You'll be seeing her again a few times later on in the story. :D


	14. Sigmund Says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all, just wanted to say that I really appreciate the kudos, subscriptions, and/or comments you've been leaving. I know the second person might put some people off, plus I've got the MCD warning working double against me, so I realize this isn't going to be the most popular fic, but even the tiniest little bit of love helps keep me going on what's quickly turning out to be a monster of a story. So thank you! This fic is near and dear to my heart, and I hope I can do some justice to it by the time all is said and done. :3

The California Historical Society is a dinky little building, the sorta place you'd imagine teachers would take their students out on field trips if, y'know, you'd actually stayed in school long enough. Don't think you missed out on much, judging by that musty book smell, the old-timey photos, the yellowed news articles, and all the exhibits filled with a bunch of crap that looks like it was cleaned out of somebody's attic. Seems to fascinate Cas, though, particularly a bit on the history of pioneers and the gold rush.

"The human memory is very peculiar," he says, thumbing his chin. "Is it selective about what it remembers, or are memories simply eroded by the passing tide?"

You're not even gonna bother asking. He'll probably just tell you something weird like the gold wasn't really gold but the remains of some big-ass alien spaceship that crashed and no one remembers because the suits zapped people's brains clean.

You…might've dabbled in your fair share of conspiracy theories in your younger years.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?"

You spin around and spot the older woman heading towards you, heels clicking sharply against the wood floorboards. "Yes, this is, uh…Detective Parker, and I'm Detective Barrow."

The two of you flash your badges, but she shoots you a leery gaze over her wire-rimmed specs. "Helen Reynolds, Executive Director. May I inquire as to what this is regarding?"

"We're working together on a missing persons case," you say. "Hoping you might be able to help us with the whereabouts of a Mikey McDonald." Well, maybe not so much missing as dead, considering you're the one who tossed 'im to the fishes, but probably best to keep that to yourself.

Her eyes widen. "You mean Michael? Oh…oh, no. I hope this doesn't mean…" She puts a hand to her mouth. "When he hadn't shown up for work, I thought perhaps it was because he had a relapse, but…oh, my. This sounds much more serious."

Cas' face darkens. "Why would you think he had a relapse?"

She don't appear to be in any hurry to spit it out, the way she's biting at her lip. "We hired Michael a few months ago as our collections assistant, but I'm afraid he wasn't a very good fit. He was…" She wrings her hands, fiddling with the ring on her finger. "Severely troubled. Michael was able to hide it for a while, but he had a nasty temper. Eventually, he had an outburst during a disagreement with our collections manager, Peter Daltrey. We would have let him go right then, but since Michael apologized profusely afterwards and Peter claimed that the outburst wasn't malicious or threatening, we…compromised and put Michael on a performance plan."

"In other words," you butt in, "you were still planning on canning him."

"At first, yes." You raise an eyebrow. "We've been severely short-staffed and needed time to find his replacement. But in a demonstration of good faith—and I assure you this wasn't a requirement of the performance plan—Michael revealed to us that he was seeking professional help for his behavior. I must admit I was skeptic of any real improvement, but within a couple weeks, it was like night and day. Michael was actually… _pleasant_ to work with."

"And, what? One knock on the head just made him snap out of it?"

"I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. He raved about this miracle drug his doctor had been prescribing him—Dr. Fontaine, I believe. You've heard of him, right? That famous celebrity psychiatrist?"

You and Cas switch glances. Hmph. Should give his number to Tom Cruise.

"Michael said that the drug therapy allowed him to see his life in a brand new light, like he finally had direction and purpose. Described it as if his entire world had been nothing but black and white, and now he could finally perceive color."

You're tempted to make a quip about whether or not said revelation came from his ol' pal "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," but you keep your lips sealed. "How long would you say he's been paying this doc a visit?"

"Why, close to two months, I suppose. About once every week."

It's only been a couple days since Mikey took a hit of the Holy Ghost, but sounds like these therapy sessions have been going on long before that. Huh. Something ain't quite lining up here. "You, um, wouldn't happen to know anything about that _Judas_ painting that was stolen recently, would you? Or maybe 'bout a Steven Walsh?"

Her eyes shrink to the size of splinters. "What department did you and your partner say you were from?"

"Hey, hey, whoa…" Ixnay on the aygay. "I never said he was my 'partner.'"

"But you said you work together."

Oh. _That_ kind of partner. "Work! Yeah, yes, course. That's what you were talking about." You cough out a laugh as the heat flushes your cheeks, stuffing your hands in your pockets. "We still, y'know, work together, we're just…I mean, work as in—"

"We're from different divisions," Cas says, giving you a sidelong glare that effectively snaps your trap shut. "Please, Ms. Reynolds. Any information you have that might help us find Mr. McDonald would be appreciated."

The lines in her face soften, but you don't squeeze much outta her after that. She knew Steven and Mikey were acquaintances, but never had the pleasure of meeting him herself. As for the painting, she don't know any more than the papers could tell you.

Basically, looks like it's another bust. Crud.

You nod your thanks with the tip of your hat, your courtesy smile souring soon as you step outside. "Goddammit, this case is worse than pulling teeth out of my ass. I'm starting to think maybe we should just go straight for the heart and give Bart what's comin' to him."

"That would be ill-advised," Cas says. "Having witnessed his brutality firsthand, Bartholomew is not someone you want to underestimate. I assure you he's made it his business to know every detail about you that could give him the upper hand. Confrontation would be unwise until you're truly ready."

You snort, brushing a thumb across your nose. "I could take 'im. Think you've forgotten the sorta heavyweights we've duked it out with before."

Cas doesn't so much as quirk his lips at you, instead pressing them thin as he takes note of someone kissing his sweetheart before hopping onto the trolley. "Hopefully Sam's investigation will have been more fruitful."

Nice subject change.

You slide into the driver's seat and jam the key into the ignition, but something that lady said gives you pause.

"What?" Cas asks.

"Mikey's doctor, Fontaine…" You roll the name over your tongue. "Why's that familiar? Wait…" Patting down your suit jacket, you retrieve the business card from your breast pocket. Bingo. One Dr. Harlan J. Fontaine, right there in silver-plated letters.

"Where did you get that?"

Your mind goes blank. "Uh…" Yeah, right, tell him it's from the chick you tried to bang before he got your sloppy seconds. "I snagged it from Mikey's wallet."

Cas sighs and stares out the window. "This tells us nothing apart from what we already knew."

"Hold on, hold on." You pat his shoulder to get his attention, regretting it the second he lasers in on you. It's not till you wrench yourself away from those wide-eyed blues that feel like a cheap shot to the gut that you get the jaw moving again. Real smooth there, champ. Sure he didn't notice. "Look. The address. His office is down in L.A."

His upstairs light flicks on. "And presuming Mikey resides in San Francisco—"

"Why would he drive several hours once a week to see some quack?"

"Yes, that is odd." He loses himself in thought for a moment before he says, "Do you think this so-called 'celebrity psychiatrist' could be at all related to Bartholomew's drug raids?"

"That's a hell of a left field guess, considering we don't know anything about this guy. What, something come up in your file?"

"Not that I recall, but this is the 1940s. Antidepressants weren't developed until the following decade. It would be much more likely that the 'miracle drug' Mikey was taking is a narcotic or stimulant."

So maybe Lucy had been keeping him company after all. "S'pose it won't hurt to keep in the back of our mind if we don't got anything better to go on. Maybe see if we can get a list of his patients and compare them to the roster of junkies slapped with the possession rap."

You start 'er up and head back to the motel where Sam's already waiting for you, minus one Hot Velma. Swear to God, you're gonna be fifty before he makes a move.

"Any luck at the museum?" you ask, lugging in the few bottles of beer you swiped on the drive over.

"Not a lot, unfortunately. You?"

"Nah, not really." You tell him about the shrink, but you're grasping at straws at this point.

He nods like he expected as much. "Well, there was definitely sulfur at the crime scene. No witnesses, though. At least not live ones."

"What about security footage?"

"No cameras. Closed-circuit television isn't exactly standard these days. I'm not entirely sure if it's been invented yet."

"Shit." You dump the beer on the table, flopping down in the chair next to him. "We really do got nothin'."

Sam gives you the stink eye as you pop off a bottle cap. "Really? Aren't you still nursing a hangover?"

Propping your legs up, you take a drawn-out sip of that golden nectar of the gods, adding some disgusting slurping noises to get a nose flare outta your brother. Yep, that's the ticket. "Nothing wrong with a little nightcap to round off the evening."

"It's not even seven."

"Still happy hour somewhere." You slide him a beer. Maybe a peace offering will shut him up.

He throws in a ridiculously annoying sigh and makes it even.

"All right, let's just…retrace our steps," Sam says. "So it's pretty clear the demon stole the painting, who we figure was possessing Walsh at the time. What do we know about Walsh's whereabouts prior to his death? That Charlene girl thought he might've taken all his papers and textbooks with him when he bailed; maybe the painting's with them?"

You toss up a hand with a shrug. "You're up to speed as much as I am. For all we know, he could've fled south of the border."

Cas creeps up behind you without warning, almost spilling your drink all over your crotch. Sneaky little shit. Whatever happened to that cowbell you were gonna get him?

"You said you found Walsh's body before you were wrongfully arrested. Where was it?"

Oh, yeah. Before that Detective Phelps made an asshat out of himself trying to grill you for a confession. "Right, right. Next to that Chinese food place, but…" Your light bulb flips on. "The dresses."

Sam wrinkles his face at you. "Dresses?"

"When I got left high and dry in 1947, there was this women's clothing store across the street from where I found the body. And guess who's the store owner? Detective tells me it's our main man, Steven Walsh."

"So you think—"

"I _do_ think. If he's hiding anything, and the angels were on his heels that night, seems like that's the first place we shoulda searched."

"Yeah, but what if the angels beat us to it?"

"Won't know till we see for ourselves. That don't pan out, could see if he's got an office over at the university."

"Guess we'll just have to hope we're not too late." Sam checks his watch. "Could probably make the trip down to L.A. tonight, but that'd be pushing it."

"You said yourself it's not even seven, lightweight."

"Dean, it's a six-hour drive. Won't be able to break in till we case the joint and know what we're dealing with, anyway. Probably gonna be some kind of alarm system we'll need to disable, and considering I'm not exactly an expert on forties tech, that's gonna take some figuring out, too."

You've got your suspicions that there's more to it than that, 'specially when he keeps eyeballin' your beer, but it's not worth the trouble. Honest to God, you're just happy he ain't prying for details about The Thing That Totally Did Not Happen and Will Never Happen Again.

Cas mentions something about riffling through his notes and wanders back to your room, leaving you and Sam to piss away a couple hours playing Texas Hold 'Em with stale Whoppers and Junior Mints. You put it off as much as you can, even fake an interest in the few reference books Sam's got lying around, but when the yawns start coming on, there's no avoiding the inevitable: you and Cas are bunking it again. Just the two of you. In the dark. _Alone._ As much as you'd like to weasel your way into bunking with Sam instead, you know that kid'll see right through you, and then you'll be stuck with a whole crapload of questions you have zero answers to. Hell, you can't even be truthful with yourself. So yeah, between a nosy brother and…whatever the fuck Cas is…you'll take the lesser of two evils: the one who knows to keep it zipped.

Unfortunately, you find yourself reevaluating your choices when you're greeted by a set of ass cheeks sticking straight up in the air. And Jesus, those _thighs._ Where does a guy get a pair of legs like—

Not important.

"The hell you doin', Cas?"

"Adho Mukha Svanasana."

"In English?"

"Downward-Facing Dog."

Doggy style. Great. If this were a dream, Freud would have a field day. "You mind flaunting that…thing somewhere else?"

Apparently, he takes that as a challenge, stretching into a new position as he leans into a weird sort of elbow-stand, lifting both of his legs up and over his head and…holy _shit,_ dude. You're not even sure if Lisa could bend like that.

"I'm not 'flaunting' anything," he says calmly, like he really isn't balancing all 160 pounds of human pretzel on his forearms and you're not leering at him like some creeper. "I'm meditating. It helps me focus."

Focus. Right. Just like you're trying to focus on anything other than the sag in his shirt and the vee in his hips and how you're _not_ thinking about how much you could really go for a fuzzy navel right now. But as he extends his airborne legs into a split like some fucking gazelle, you know he's gotta be begging for attention—'cause first off, _ow?—_ and with those tight-ass boxer briefs, how exactly are you supposed to stop your eyes from darting straight for the crotch and seeing the outline of his… _jesusfuck._

You gulp down the last swig of beer and slam the empty bottle on the nightstand, veering towards the head as you mutter a "Whatever, Buddha." What the hell was that, anyway? Yoga or _Kama Sutra?_

When you've finished dressing down for bed and splashed some water to your face, you're relieved to find Stretch Armstrong back in his natural state, huddled over the table as he leafs through his notebook. "I meant to tell you that I've been unable to find the name Fontaine anywhere in my annotations. However, simply because we've failed to make a connection at this juncture, that does not rule out the possibility of there being one."

"Well, we can still try to get a hold of that patient list. But you know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Cas." You notice the soft smile easing the corners of his lips. "What?"

"A rather apt analogy. Although not necessarily a correct one."

No comment.

He retreats to the bathroom to do his own business, and you figure that's as good a time as any to call it a night. Except…ugh, you forgot to brush your teeth. You hate to go to sleep with your pearly whites feeling all slimy and gross, and looks like the door's open, so you grab your toothbrush and tell Cas to move his exfoliating butt over.

It's, um. Not as weird anymore, being in close quarters with him. Okay, that's a lie; it's still weird. But all things considered, today wasn't as bad as it coulda been. Maybe you've been overreacting...if Cas is managing to keep his cool, no reason you can't, either. And no reason you can't go back to being a couple of buds who drink together. After all, once you'd forced yourself to suck it up—working the case with Cas, bouncing a few ideas back and forth—it put you back in your comfort zone. Like yeah, sure. This is totally a thing you could do on a regular basis. You're both professionals, right?

Even now, you don't really mind all the elbow bumping and toe stubbing as the two of you navigate the small space between, Cas dodging your spit wad as you rinse your mouth out; you moseying out of the way with your flossing while Cas gets up close and personal with his nose hairs.

"Can you, um…"

"Of course."

"I need to—"

"Oh, sorry."

But when you both reach for the towel, suddenly, he's right up against you, not so much an inch of breathing room. You freeze up, throat tightening as Cas radiates nothing but heat waves, all loose and warm from that nice long shower he just took, and fuck if you ain't fighting every instinct to sink into it. Fuck, it shouldn't…it shouldn't _be_ this easy to let yourself get lost; to go weak in the knees just 'cause he treats you like you're front and center of everything. Like you actually _matter._ You almost wish he'd just…do _something_ to give you reason to push him away again.

'Cept then he pushes first.

"Good night, Dean."

You let out the breath you hadn't known you'd been holding, watching him crawl into his own bed and turn out the lights. You can't blame Cas for bein' true to his word—you said you didn't want to talk about it, so he hasn't talked. Which is, y'know. Good. It's what you wanted. Everything same old, same old. And Cas…Cas' been playing his part so well, it's damn near fooled you into thinking it never happened in the first place.

Which it didn't.

You heave a sigh as you finally hit the sack, clutching your pillow to your chest. Funny how a crummy twin mattress still seems too big.

Yeah. Damn fool sounds about right.

*****

They should've called it Blue _Balls_ Monday.

You're about three minutes into your morning shower, hot water soaking deep into your bones until you're nothing but putty, when you get this idea that yeah, you could pull off those crazy-ass poses Cas was doing last night. Can't be that hard, right? Okay, so you're closer to forty than thirty at this point, but come on. Long as you lay off the croissookies, you're still fit as a fiddle.

Course, you'll never be as flexible as that bendy bastard. What kind of insane workout regimen does he have, anyway? He's gotta be doing more than some new-agey, chakra-aligning crap to get a washboard like that. Jesus, you could _eat_ off of it.

Huh. Wonder what he'd…uh. Taste like?

You barely finish the thought before your dick jumps to attention like it's just heard the damn reveille. Friggin' hell, man. You so don't need this right now. Questioning shit like this—like who _are_ you anymore? _What_ are you?—that should be the kinda thing that haunts you at two a.m. when the indigestion crops up, not the first thing in the morning before you've even had your damn coffee.

The smart answer's flipping on the cold water and shutting it all off. Don't even bother making sense of it because how the fuck could you? Every time you've tried, you squash it with a big fucking _you don't._ Least, that's what your dad always said when he got piss drunk and couldn't tell you from a punching bag. So maybe it was your fault for losing the money in a poker game. Maybe it was something you should've just sucked up instead of whoring yourself out for a few lousy bucks.

Then again, this ain't about scraping by anymore. This isn't about having no other choice; this is about the fact that you _do._ And if you're crossing that line of your own free will, then...

Ugh, Christ, dude; you're putting way too much thought into this. You're talking about jacking off here. If you wanna do it, just get it over with before you start growing lady parts.

The way your dick's already pulsing from the blood rush, you're hoping you can do this one on autopilot, but as you lean against the tile and give yourself those first couple experimental strokes, turns out it don't take much for you to cross that line after all. Hell, you don't know if you can even _see_ the line anymore, slicking a tongue over your lips and imagining what it'd be like to bury yourself in those meaty-as-fuck thighs, the kinda noises you'd tease out of him if you could just get your mouth on that beautiful goddamn cock of his.

Has Cas ever had a blow job? Does he even know what a blow job is? It'd only be right to treat him to one after cutting him off cold turkey yesterday. God, you're an ass. You're not a man who'll stoop to begging, but even you know you should be groveling at his feet for the shit you've put him through the past year, greasing him up and swallowing down every inch he'll give you. And although you don't deserve jack, that don't stop you from wondering if you could be his first—if you could be the one to drive him as crazy as the real number he's done on you—sending all sorts of freaky hot chills down your spine that shoot straight to your dick. Just the thought of hearing him whine, feeling him squirm as you pin his hips to the wall and suck him off is enough to get you throbbing 'tween the legs for it.

Fuck, you'd make him feel _awesome._

Guy's always had his nose up in your damn business; 'bout high time you give him a hell of a show to remember. You'd make sure he's watching as you lick along the underside of his shaft, got his eyes locked with yours as you flick your tongue over those extra sensitive bits that'll have him seeing a different kind of stars. Maybe moan for him a little to let 'im know how good he tastes, and when you cup his balls, fondle 'em a bit like you're doing to yourself now, you'd—oh, _fuck—_ you'd have him exactly right where you want him. Your heart pounds, getting that fuzzy feeling at the edge of your brain as you work your wrist double-time, picturing how he'd shudder and gasp as you wrap your spit-soaked lips around that big fat dick of his, taking him in as deep as he'll go. Jesus, you'd be so fucking hard for him, there's no way you'd be able to resist jerking yourself off. And Cas…he's only human, too; bet it wouldn't be long till he's thrusting his hips, pulling at your hair— _God,_ yes, that sonuvabitch would love bein' rough with you, wouldn't he? He'd grab that fucking bull by the horns and fuck your mouth till he's coming down your throat, panting your name over and over again, and…holy shit, you're gonna—you're gonna fucking—

You brace yourself against the shower wall, barely choking back the groan trying to escape as you jizz all over the tile. Fucking Christ, that's— _shit,_ that felt good. _Fuck._ You start thinkin' that you should really take a load off like this more often, and once you blink away the sex fog, heart finally back in its normal paces, you get to realizing certain things. Like, all right, maybe this whole…whatever it is…maybe it's not something you can just flush out of your system. Maybe…maybe it's a part of your system. But a very _small_ part, okay? A part that's apparently gone completely freaking haywire on you, and for what, huh? Some dopey-eyed ex-angel? You still totally dig chicks, remember? It's not like…not like you're some mimosa-drinking, pride-flagging, feather-boa-wearing glitter bomb. Not—not that there's anything wrong with that; it's just not… _you._

But then who the fuck _are_ you?

Truth used to be the stomach rot you always felt after those back-alley dates. That was the one thing keeping your head screwed on tight: knowing that it was nothing more than a job, and like any job, you hated it. You didn't want it; you didn't enjoy it. You just did it. 'Cept now, you ain't feelin' that damn stomach rot anymore. Instead, you get aches in places you never knew you could; a case of the shakes whenever he's not keeping you warm; a fire in the hollow of your chest that burns worse than any fever.

Shit. Maybe you really are gay for Cas.

*****

Before you take off for L.A., you hit up a diner just outside San Francisco's city limits. It's next to a truck stop and smells like bacon grease and bad hygiene, but at least it's early enough that no one's asking you out-of-towners any questions. Makes for a quiet morning save for whatever nerdy topic Sam and Cas are jawing back and forth, one that you're not even gonna pretend to be interested in. Considering you can't look Cas in the eye without thinking about going down on him, you've pretty much said to hell with normal human interaction for the day. You're too busy ignoring the leers you're gettin' from the two burly dudes over at the lunch counter, anyway, hoping they don't prefer their wings extra pasty.

Sam says he didn't see anything, but you ditch the place the moment one of them puckers his lips at you.

To save on gas, the three of you pile into the Tudor and leave the Pontiac behind, your brother taking shotgun like the natural order of things as you switch the radio on.

_"I left my heart…in San Francis—"_

You switch it back off.

Guess you're not in the mood for music after all.

*****

Sam's tasked with recon because you're not gonna take the risk of someone recognizing you or Cas' mug, not with the dress shop so close to the police station. After he tells you about the hour-long runaround he had with the sales lady while scoping out the hardware, though, you're not sorry you missed it…or surprised. Your brother's got that "helpless sap needs last-minute present for his wife" vibe without even trying. Least it paid off; Sam seems to think disabling the security system will be a cinch without having to worry about all the high-tech stuff you're used to dealing with.

Come nightfall, while Sam sets up a ruse for the beat cop on patrol and plays lookout, that leaves you and Cas to the actual B&E. Once you've shut off the alarm, the two of you make your way past the sales floor, swallowing down the mini-heart attack you have every time you flash your light on one of the display dolls. Monsters, you can handle, but mannequins with the life all sucked outta them and staring at you like you're next? Those fuckers're already creepy enough in the daylight, but in the dark? Yeah, good luck not shitting your pants.

Hey, it's a _totally_ legit fear.

Nothing catches your eye at first; just a bunch of vintage fashion posters and enough frilly patterns to suffocate you. A perfume counter, some cheap gold jewelry, and—oh, here you go—a table stacked with mountains of candy-colored panties. Bet, uh, those silk ones with the tiny bow on the caboose feel nice.

"We're here for the painting, not to pilfer the merchandise," Cas grumbles. The smirk immediately slips from your face, growing hot around the collar when you're jabbed with the unpleasant reminder that he knows about your little secret. Still don't have the slightest fucking clue how. It was just the one…maybe two…five times. Who's counting, really?

Then again, not like he appeared to think much of it. Probably couldn't care less, actually. You sorta get the impression that Cas ain't the type to have a concept of all that gender norm crap. X's and Y's sure don't seem like a deal breaker for most angels when it comes to shopping for meatsuits, at least. So maybe…he wouldn't have a problem with it. If you, y'know, spontaneously decided to wear a pair underneath your fed slacks. Hey, when you get punched, kicked, knifed, shot, choked, and lit on fire on a daily basis, it's about the small luxuries, all right? Sometimes, you need a…softer touch. Like a sympathy card addressed to your crown jewels.

Maybe Cas would even let you model 'em for him. Heh, that might be kinda—

" _Dean._ " He uses his smite-y voice on you, snapping you out of your fantasy bubble as he waves you towards the back where his flashlight's centered on a door marked _EMPLOYEES ONLY._

Right. Back to work.

It's pretty cushy for your average office. It's still got the ugly metal file cabinets and a bunch of other boring shit you can only assume is for office-y purposes, but it's covered wall-to-wall in reading material and that same kind of hoity-toity art you saw back at Walsh's place. Most of the books piled on his desk aren't even the ledger type; wonder if he spent more time in his own fucked-up dreamland than taking care of any actual business.

The painting's nowhere in plain sight, of course, and the only other thing in the room worth noting is one of those two-ton safes in the corner. If Walsh was hiding anything, that's gotta be where it is.

You kneel down and start cracking that baby open, tongue inching out the corner of your mouth as you turn the dial and listen for the sweet spots. Cas pokes at the shelves of dead dude manifestos until he pauses to ask, "Why are you humming the theme to _The Pink Panther?_ "

"Helps me concentrate." Sheesh. No appreciation for the classics. "I don't ask why you do all the weird stuff you do."

"You have. On several occasions."

What, you're keeping score now?

Finally, you hit all 7's, doing a mental fist pump as you hear the safe unlock and let the door swing open. Unfortunately, 'cept for a stack of insurance documents and other useless records, it's empty. Goddammit, seriously? You struck out again?

You glance over your shoulder to relay the bad news to Cas, but he's still fixated by those dumb books. "Dean, come look at this."

"Yeah, we really don't got time to read the rainbow, LeVar."

Even in the dark, you swear you can see his beady little squint. "It's not for leisure. It's related to the case."

You huff out a sigh as you get to your feet and peer over at the title Cas has a digit on, eyes widening when you recognize the emblem on the spine. "Rooster head and snake legs…that's the same symbol Walsh had on his ring. Abracadabra."

"Abrasax."

"Whatever."

The sucker gets stuck as you try to pull it off the shelf, but then there's this loud _clunk!_ behind the wall, and you honestly don't know what else to do except stand there freeze-frame style as the bookcase moves all on its own, revealing some kinda secret passage.

That's…different.

Suddenly, there's a tap at the window, and you do an instant 180, reaching for your holster and—oh, thank God, it's only Sammy. (No, you did _not_ jump.) "You need to wrap it up," he says. "I think someone spotted your flashlights and phoned it in on one of those police boxes."

"What, like the TARDIS?"

"No, not—" He rolls his eyes and points towards the window latch. "Dean, just get your ass out here before—"

"Give us a minute, okay?"

"What?"

"Stall!"

While your brother's throwing a bitch fit, you head back towards the bookcase, tugging Cas along with you. "Are you certain it's wise to go in there?" he says. "This may be our only exit. What if the authorities arrive before we escape?"

"It's called improvising. Now or never, Cas."

You feel your way down a set of stairs, the rotting wood creaking with each step as you mutter a silent prayer that you're not stumbling into front row seats to a donkey show. (Wouldn't be the first time.) Thankfully, all that's waiting for you is the stink of loneliness and regret, judging by the empty bottles of cognac, a serious pill collection—what're these? Uppers? Downers?—and balled-up scraps of paper littered everywhere. Can't make heads or tails out of most of the squiggles, but bits and pieces look like they could be spells. You recognize a few of the symbols from alchemy textbooks. Stuff on the Templar mythos. Some strange-lookin' Egyptian, maybe Indian doodles, too. Huh. These must be Walsh's notes.

You snoop through the artifacts he's got scattered about, ranging from tribal to medieval. Dunno what it's for, but apparently, he had a reason for owning some random tube thing. Nothing strikes you as particularly bizarre, though, until you open one of the desk drawers and discover a legal pad full of creepy-ass drawings. At first, it's just a couple sketches of…angel wings? Pretty elaborate, actually; if Walsh drew these, he sure put a lot of detail into the feathers. But as you flip through, the drawings change—the feathers fall out; the bones twist and break till the wings are ripped out altogether. Guy used a shit-ton of red ink for the gushing blood, really putting that colorful accent on just about every kind of ritual stabbing you can imagine. After that, the drawings get messier. Almost frantic. Bunch of faces with the eyes scratched out until there's nothing but pages and pages of angry black scribbles with the words:

_WE ARE LEGION_

Jesus, talk about a tortured soul. Maybe it's a good thing the angels iced him before he could do any real damage.

"Dean." Cas gestures with his flashlight to the framed piece of art peeking out from behind the couch. "It's the one."

'Bout time you had something pay off. "Then let's pack it up and haul ass."

But before you can scrape together Manson's diary, your ears pick up a squeak from the top of the stairs. Too quiet to be Sam's lumberjack feet.

Fuck.

You yank Cas in close and whisper, "I'll distract. You. Improvise."

"What does that even—"

"LAPD! Come out with your hands up!"

"Hey, man," you call up, walking directly towards the descending beam of light. "I'm not anglin' for any trouble."

The officer takes the bait, zeroing in on you with his sidearm while Cas watches from the shadows. When nothing happens, your fingers get antsy and reach for the Colt tucked in the back of your waistband, but that just earns you an earful. "I said hands up, buddy! Nobody has to get hurt."

"Whoa, whoa, hey—did you think—" You force out a nervous chuckle. "No, see, I got this really bad rash, and it itches like you wouldn't _believe._ Not to mention the smell…whoo, doggy!"

There's a marble bust to your right that should do the trick, but you can only do so much hinting with your eyes. Come on, Cas, anytime this cent—

_Pfwwft!_

Without warning, the cop drops like a fly.

Th'hell did Cas do to 'im?

You search the body, putting two-and-two together when you locate the dart jammed into the back of his neck and realize Cas is holding that giant tube you saw earlier. "You shot him with a blowgun?"

"I improvised."

"What if you missed?"

"I'd carry you."

"Oh, _that's…_ comforting!"

Cas goes on to assure you that the guy "should" be fine as long as one of his buddies finds him in the next few hours before the poison does its worst, so you cuff the officer to a pipe and scram with the goods. After you think you've made a clean getaway, Sam asks you what went down.

"Cas knocked the fuzz out by blowing him."

He doesn't bother prying for the details.

Back at the motel, you lean the painting against the foot of the bed for everybody's viewing pleasure. Reminds you of a couple of your old flings: looks better in the dark. "Finally." You heave out a long-ass sigh as you toss the fedora on a coat hook. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Sam quirks an eyebrow at you. "And where is that, exactly?"

You put your hands to your hips as you give the painting another once-over, tilting your head to try to get a different angle of it. "I have no idea."

Which means your favorite bit comes next: research. You let Sam and Cas handle the 500-page tomes while you take a second gander of Walsh's art vomit. "Get a load of this." You slide the pad towards your brother. "Dude didn't even bother stopping by the funny farm on his way to crazy town."

His lip curls as he thumbs through the drawings. "You know where 'We are Legion' comes from, right?"

"If it involves teabagging other people's avatars, no."

"It's from the New Testament," Cas says. "On his travels, Jesus encountered a madman who was possessed. When asked its name, the demon responded, 'My name is Legion, for we are many.' Jesus then drove the demons into a herd of pigs, who subsequently drowned themselves in a lake."

Friggin' religion, man. Responsible for more nightmares than the Brothers Grimm. "Great, so we could have an entire army on our hands?" You rub the heels of your palms into your eyes. God, you don't get paid enough for this. Or at all. "Well, if there was any doubt before that Walsh was blowing smoke outta his ass, there sure as hell ain't any now."

You hit the books again, and just when you're about to drool all over the evidence, Sam thinks he found something, showing you a photo of the painting with some sort of clipping attached to it. He reads it out loud for both you and Cas. "'And he will cast Him into darkness so that he may gaze upon His Light, for He loved him most and revealed to him in confidence the Truth of all that which he did not yet understand. As was the Firstborn Son, he is the Anointed One who will bear His Letters on his back, and through the Fire the Perfect will be made known.'"

"Yeah, I understood all zero of that."

Sam's quick with riddles, though, and you can already see his gears turning. "Could it be referring to Jesus and Judas? I mean, it must be if it was purposely paper clipped to this photo." He makes a little thinking noise to himself as he studies the passage. "The 'Firstborn Son'…that's gotta be Cain, and the Cainites pretty much put Judas in the same league as him. 'Light,' 'Truth,' 'the Perfect will be made known'…sounds like they're talking about gnosis to me, which Judas evidently attained through his betrayal of Jesus."

"So…you're saying our answer's _in_ the brush strokes?"

"I don't know; maybe?"

You scoot your chair over to the painting, elbows on your knees to get a good look-see of what you're dealing with. Art's never really said much of anything to you except how much it sucks, but maybe challenging it to a stare down will make it cough up a thing or two.

Game goes to Judas when he turns his head and flashes his big black peepers at you.

You whip around to see if Sam or Cas noticed it, too, but they're glued to their Bible stories. Okay. Must've been how the light hit it. Yeah. Perfectly logical explanation.

You end up flipping it over. Just to be safe.

"I don't like the way it's lookin' at me," you say when Sam scrunches his face up at you.

He snorts. "It's not the _Mona Lisa,_ Dean."

Isn't the blank canvas supposed to be more inspiring, anyway? You know, "anything can happen"…that sort of thing? Paint the next masterpiece. Compose a song. Write a letter to a—

Wait a second.

"'Letters on his back…through the Fire the Perfect will be made known…'" Pacing the floor, you point your finger at Cas. "We still have any lemon left from the fish fry?"

"Uh…perhaps? I don't—"

You clap him on the shoulder. "You might've been on the nose with the Nic Cage reference after all, buddy."

Before Sam can protest some crap about the sanctity of art, you retrieve your pocket knife and slice the painting out of its frame, clearing a space on the bathroom counter and lying the canvas facedown. After squeezing a bit of lemon juice into a bowl, you dip a Q-tip in and smear the stuff on one of the upper corners. Just as you suspected, once you apply a little heat with the hair dryer, a familiar symbol pops up right before your eyes. "Aha! Yahtzee, baby!"

Cas peers over you. "It's the Abrasax insignia."

"Yup. Which means…" You liberally coat the rest of the canvas with the juice, reaching for the hair dryer again. "There should be some sorta secret message written on this thing."

Now if only you could actually read it.

"That don't look like any language I've ever seen. Ring any bells for you guys?"

Cas admits the warranty on his human melon ain't what he thought it'd be, so he can't compute something and spit out an answer as easily as he used to. Sam don't recognize it, either, but he doesn't rule out the possibility that it could be in code. Y'know, secret messages being secret and all.

"What about Sarah?" he asks. "She could probably use her ties to the Men of Letters and help us translate."

"You think we can trust her? Like, for real?"

"We really have any other choice at this point? But yeah, I, uh…" He ducks his head, his cheeks turning so rosy, _you're_ embarrassed. "She's a good egg. I'll, uh…give her a holler tomorrow."

Christ almighty, that boy needs to get his freak on with that girl.

Sam exits the john, but Cas stays to help you tidy up. "That was very clever. The invisible ink."

"Yeah, well. You weren't too shabby yourself with that whole blowgun thing. Gotta teach me how to use one of those."

Cas smiles, but you don't dare meet him eye-to-eye. If you do, you're fucked.

Probably literally.

Definitely literally.

Instead, you focus on rolling up the canvas, careful not to smudge any of the ink. "Guess we made a pretty good team today, huh?"

"We always do."

"Yeah," you say, your voice getting soft. "Cas, listen…" It's right there, on the tip of your tongue: _I'm sorry for being a jackass; sorry for treating you like shit ever since the angels fell; sorry for not being there for you, for not doing more for you._ But if you start spewing your guts, you don't know if you'll be able to stop.

And that's one ugly mess neither of you are ever gonna be able to wash clean.

He steps closer. "What, Dean?"

_Sorry I couldn't be more for you._

"Tell Sam I'm going out."

"Where?"

You ignore the sickly twist in your stomach when his face falls. "Just…out."

At the watering hole a few blocks down the street, you order up a scotch rocks and punch out some Duke Ellington on the jukebox. Two or three drinks in, you finally get to asking yourself: what the hell's wrong with you? Having yourself a damn pity party, is that it? For chrissakes, actin' like the whole world's gonna come crumblin' down the moment you let him under your skin. You've got a thicker outer layer than that. 'Sides, you both could use the stress relief, and based on your recent track record with women, you don't seem likely to run into another willing candidate anytime soon.

Or more importantly, one that wouldn't hear you accidentally call out the wrong name.

It wouldn't have to be more than a little fooling around here and there. It's not like it'd have to be a big deal. It's not like it'd have to _be_ anything. What, you gonna take cold showers the rest of your life?

And even if it did, y'know, get a bit mushier than what you signed up for, would that really be…that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it? Having someone to wake up to in the morning? Especially when you don't have to suffer through all the dating bullshit first because you already know each other's life story? Especially when you actually kinda like their stupid, squinty face?

Holy crap. You're seriously considering this.

Before you manage to swallow that thought, some guy takes the stool next to you, nodding in your direction as he sets his hat down on the bar. "Evening."

You're about to mutter the same back at him, but when he swipes back his hair and you get a good glimpse of his profile, your mouth goes dry.

"Henry?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note that I do realize "I Left My Heart in San Francisco" wasn't actually recorded until 1962, but given that it fit with the content of the story, I decided to fudge things a little bit. :)


	15. All In, Baby

The guy shoots you a double-take. "Beg pardon…who?"

"Henry. You're Henry Winchester, yeah?"

He sizes you up as he signals to the bartender for a vodka tonic. Finally, he says, "I'm afraid you have the wrong man, friend."

What? Wrong dude? His fashion sense ain't quite the same as your granddad's, wearing a tie that's louder than Fourth of July fireworks at Washington Memorial, but you swear he's—he's gotta be, right? Then again, there's a lot of things you swear you've been seeing lately. Maybe the dingy bar lighting's only fooling your eyes again.

Before you give him reasons to file a restraining order, you break your gaze and wave it off. "Sorry, it's just…you're like the spitting image of…" Staring down into your scotch rocks seems like a real good idea right now. "Never mind."

"I've been told I have one of those faces." He extends a hand, his eyes doing the smiling for his lips. "Name's Jack Kelso. And you are?"

"Um…Dean." Once you get the basic motor skills functioning again, you return the firm grip. "I'm Dean."

"Pleasure, Dean."

"If I get enough drinks in me, sure."

The remark loosens him up a bit, chuckling as the grin spreads from the crinkles around his eyes to the corners of his mouth. "Ah, yes. Whisky. A cruel mistress come morning, but a tempting one." He thanks the bartender for his own companion of choice, giving the lime a few seconds to settle into his tonic. "So who's this pal of yours? Henry, was it?"

"Henry's an old buddy of mine. We, uh…" What year is this? 1947? "Fought in the war together. Marines."

"Fellow jarheads, huh? What company?"

Dad was mostly a closed book when it came to his military life, but you're glad he told you enough to bullshit your way through a conversation. "Echo 2/1."

"So you were over in Okinawa, then. I was part of the Fighting Sixth myself."

Your mind races, trying to remember if you even took geography or if you were too busy making out with Katie Andrews under the bleachers. Okinawa…where's that on the map again?

Luckily, the guy just rambles on about some nasty shit that went down at this Sugar Loaf Hill spot while you nod and pretend to know a lick 'bout what he's saying. "Yeah, man. Brutal."

A lazy jazz track tinkles in the background, hitting those sad notes on the old ivory keys. "You never get used to it, do you?" He starts to space off, letting the glass dangle at his lips as you barely make his words out over the other patrons' chatter. "Watching your men die."

There's a tic at the bolt of your jaw. Suddenly, you don't have to pretend so much no more.

Jack knocks back half his tonic, ice clinking as he sets the glass back down. "They tell you you'll be forced to make decisions that'll get your crew killed; that the right choice isn't always the popular one. And while the USMC certainly runs a tight ship, truth is, I doubt any of us grunts knew what the hell we were in for. You can work your ass off during training, earn your gold stars, but nothing prepares you. Not really."

He's got that same haunted look to him that Dad sometimes did when he brought out the hunter's helper. You figure it's best to let him do the talking.

"Private Plant. Fine soldier. Would've done anything for his comrades. Didn't have any family stateside, so we were all he had." He glances down into his drink. "I suppose we all felt like that one way or another."

"I take it this story doesn't have a happy ending."

"Not when the story's smack dab in the middle of hell's kitchen." He goes for another sip, gritting his teeth to bite back the kick. "Things were heating up, and we were rushing to get the demolition charge ready before shit hit the fan. But…something went wrong. Couldn't set it off. I thought it was a dud, so I ordered Plant to go check on it, and…" He hangs his head, huddling over the bar. "Well, you don't need me to fill in the blanks."

No, you really don't.

Wish some of 'em would stay blank.

"When I finally got to him, he'd already gone into shock. Wouldn't stop bleeding out. Never seen so much blood come out of one man in my life." You rub at your temple, a faint buzz growing inside of your brain to match the hollow drone of his voice. "It was my fault. I made the call, and it wasn't the right or popular choice. Just…stupid. All I could do was hold him in my arms till he gave up the ghost."

An ache starts to take root at the base of your skull. You ain't exactly the spring chicken you used to be; maybe your years are catching up and dehydration's getting the jump on you. But instead of asking the bartender for a water, you suck down every last drop of your scotch, even as the whisky turns bitter in the back of your mouth, the slow burn eating away at your insides instead of thawing them out.

All you can think about is how you've got more than a few ghosts of your own.

"We all went marching in, believing we were fighting for some noble cause…but you know what they say about good intentions," he says. Been there, done that. Bought the damn t-shirt. "We go in to take down the big, bad wolf, and we end up being the ones huffing and puffing our chests, all in a blaze of self-righteousness and glory. Then they hand you a medal for it." He shakes his head, muttering, "Goddamn you, Phelps."

Phelps? He doesn't mean that dipshit detective, does he? Can't squeeze in a word edgewise to ask, though; man's on a roll. "And the ones that don't get commended? They get even greedier. Now the LAPD has their work cut out for them trying to track down the morphine that's gone missing from the SS _Coolridge_ because some knucklehead thought it'd be a swell idea to steal it."

Your ears perk up. "That army surplus stuff?"

"Yeah. They're calling it 'Rapture' or some other nonsense. Word on the street is that they're adding a little something extra to it."

"Like what?"

"Do I look like a junkie or an egghead to you?" He shrugs, finishing off his vodka tonic. "Don't know. Something that's intended to dial up the euphoria but reduce the less desirable side effects. I hear people experience this strange sense of inner peace they've never had before."

"Huh. And that's why they're conducting all those drug raids."

Jack snorts. "For all the good it's doing."

"Meaning?"

"City thinks this Roy Earle guy working the vice desk is their ace up their sleeve, but I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. Seems more like a dog and pony show to me. I don't understand why he's going after the small-time jokers, throwing the no-names behind bars. Maybe to nab a lead, sure, but he should be targeting the dope peddlers, the big players. And now that Siegel's had his comeuppance, I'd bet a thousand clams Cohen's got his sticky fingers all over this. But what do I know? I'm just a damn insurance claims investigator."

It's not much, but sounds like Jack knows more than the dailies'll ever tell you. Maybe even more than he's letting on. "Say…you ever heard of a Dr. Harlan Fontaine?"

"The head doctor?" He leans back on his stool. "Heard of him. Never met him. Just a sharp-dressed charlatan if you ask me."

"He got any ties to this?"

"Couldn't tell you. Why?"

Probably better if you leave out the whole saving the world from imminent destruction bit. "Let's just say I'm looking into some things that can't really be explained by the, uh…usual circumstances."

"You a private dick?"

"Just interested in the truth."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with that Henry fellow, would it?"

You cock your head, brow furrowing. Definitely more than he's letting on.

When you don't respond, he says, "Or let me guess: you're dizzy over some dame who walked into the crossfire, and now you're out to even the score." You roll your eyes, but you're not gonna convince him otherwise. Ain't worth the breath. "You follow after her and go putting your nose where it's not wanted, you'll need to buy yourself a double cemetery plot."

"I know how to handle myself. Marine, remember?"

"Right." A smile spreads across his face. Oddly enough, it seems genuine. "Well, I appreciate you giving me an ear, but I need to take a powder." He slaps a few bills down on the bar, then slides you his business card. California Fire and Life. "Sorry I'm not the man you were hoping to see, but if you ever need a better rate on your homeowners' coverage, I can get you in touch with one of our top salesmen."

"Thanks, but I don't…" A swallow goes down harder than you expect. "I move around. A lot."

"Something to keep in mind for the future, then. Nice meeting you, Dean." He shakes your hand. "And for your sake, whatever it is you're looking for…I hope you don't find it."

Hmph. That's not annoyingly ominous. Surprised he didn't try selling you a life insurance policy. Actually, considering how many times you've ate it, you and Sam would be rolling in the dough by now if you'd had one of those. Talk about wasted opportunity.

Sighing, you play with the card between your fingers before finally stuffing it into your back pocket. S'pose it's time you drag your ass outta here, too, before your family rounds up a search party.

Back at the motel, you ignore Sam's prissy little "Where were you?" and move on to more important shit. "Dude. The weirdest thing just happened."

"Can't remember where you put the car keys weird or watching fairies explode in a microwave weird?"

"More like _Parent Trap_ weird."

"You…ran into your long-lost twin?"

"What? No, not _my_ twin. Honestly, I don't even know if he's a twin, but you know our grandpa? Henry? I basically ran into his clone. Said his name was Jack…uh, something. Whoever the obnoxious one was on _That '70s Show._ "

"That doesn't really whittle it down."

"Kelso, that's it."

You pull out a chair and show the business card to Sam, who barely gives it a courtesy glance. "And…you think some completely random stranger who doesn't even have the same last name is related to our grandfather? Dad never said anything about having an uncle."

"Dad never said a lot of things. Maybe he's the Emilio Estevez to our Charlie Sheen."

"Really?"

"Hey, you don't have to look at me like I'm some nutter, all right? Just sayin' it's a little freaky, is all. More notably, this Jack dude and I got to talking, and seems like he might have a number on Bart's dope brigade. Even thinks Mickey friggin' Cohen could be involved."

You fill him in on the deets you gleaned from Jack, and your brother's at least mildly more impressed. "I guess till we know for sure which way this case is going, even hearsay's worth noting. Speaking of weird, get this. I've been reading up on this sex magick stuff, and—"

"Brushing up on the ol' repertoire, Sammy?"

"Funny." You'd like to think so. "You know what is funny, though? The guy that came up with it." Sam pats the textbook in front of him. "Aleister Crowley."

Oh, hell. " _Crowley's_ behind this?" You peer over at the page he's got flipped open to a black and white mugshot. "Wait, this ain't Crowley's meatsuit."

"Not his usual, no, but who knows how many wardrobe changes he had before settling on his afternoon tea and murder collection."

"Yeah, but this dude's bald and wearing a bowtie. Who even wears bowties 'cept for fuddy-duddy professors that smell like mothballs?" You squint at the photo again. Yeesh. That had to've been one fugly baby. "Crowley's sure as hell no Mark Vanderloo, but his pompous ass is a little vain for that, dontcha think?"

"All right, so it's not his style, but if demons are somehow involved with this fucked-up clandestine cult? I'm not gonna count him out. Guy probably invented German dungeon porn."

And there goes any hope of sleeping soundly tonight. "Awesome. Bart _and_ Crowley. Just what we need." You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, eventually peeping them open again to discover that your third wheel's nowhere in sight. "Where's Cas?"

"Next door," Sam says. "Wanted to turn in for the night."

"Oh." The word dangles in the silence when he doesn't offer to elaborate. "So…he's asleep?"

"I don't know. He said something about showering off, and that was maybe…ten minutes ago. Why?"

"Nothing, just…" You clear your throat, pulling at your collar. "No reason."

How the hell do you tell Sam you wanna sleep with Cas without, y'know, _telling_ him you wanna sleep with Cas?

While you attempt to drum up an idea, your fingers rap against the table, apparently loud enough to earn you a hot glare from your brother. Before he makes some quip about sticking to decaf after seven, though, you steer the conversation in a different direction. One that hopefully leads to performing some old-fashioned quality assurance testing on these motel mattresses. "You, uh…talk to Hot Velma yet?"

"Okay, first of all, her name's Sarah. And second of all, you see how late it is? It can wait till tomorrow."

"Well, hey," you get up from your seat, fetching your duffle, "who needs tomorrow when you've got tonight?"

Sam's eyes narrow once he realizes you're packing it up. "What're you doing?"

"Thought I'd be the good older brother and go bunk with Cas in case you and Hot Velma—sorry, Sarah—end up needing some alone time."

It's not _entirely_ a lie.

"Dean, really, that's…not even an issue. She's a nice girl, but that's all it is. I'm not about to metaphorically screw the universe just so I can literally…you know."

God, should've known Sam would be a fucking prude about it. "Fine. I was trying to spare you the unpleasantries, but guess I'm just gonna have to lay it all out there."

"Lay…what?"

"I…you…see, the thing is…well, you…" Jesus, you're off to a fantastic start. "You snore. Loud. Yeah. Louder than a…a goddamn freight train. Compared to you, Cas is quieter than a…well, something really quiet; that's what. Didn't wanna say it, but it's the truth, Sammy."

"Uh, pretty sure you've bitched about it be—"

"Fact, I've never slept better when we're not in the same…general…sleeping area. Vicinity." You reach for the door, inching it open. "So you just…do your thing, you…Foghorn…Leghorn…and I'll…"

Screw finishing your sentence; you just point a finger towards the outside and duck your head out the door. Like you're some big, dumb fifteen-year-old lying to his parents so he can sneak away for an X-rated sleepover. That's it. That's exactly what this is. You're having a big, dumb, gay sleepover with Cas. Shit, you're really…you're really doing this. You're really…the fuck are you even gonna say to him? Bust in with a couple of beers and ask him if he wants to Netflix and chill?

On second thought, no, bad idea. You'd have to spend forty-five minutes explaining to Cas what Netflix is before you ever get to the "chill" part, and you'd just end up tired and pissed when you realize the whole damn thing is moot considering it doesn't exist in the first place. So okay, scratch the Netflix. Just get in there and…hell, pull a Joey Tribbiani if you have to. Cas might not be a chick, but putting the moves on him can't be any different, right?

Except it is. It really fucking is, and part of you's beginning to suspect that maybe it don't have much to do with the shape of his junk after all. If you go strictly by the packaging, sure, Cas is a dude, but he's also kinda…not? Cas is…well, he's _Cas._ How the hell else do you explain it?

Fuck, you got no idea what this is.

You glance back at Sam's room, groaning more at your own loser self than anything else. Dude, you're thinking too hard again. This wasn't supposed to be a big deal, remember? Goal is to jack off, not get yourself jacked up over the technicalities. You might as well grow a fucking vagina if you're gonna stand out here and pussyfoot around the proverbial bush…which, well, might solve one of your problems, but you like your dick, thank you very much, and you sorta seem to like Cas having one, too, so you're just gonna have to suck it up and take it like a man.

Heh. Who's the pun master now?

Gulping down all the air your measly lungs can hold, you raise your fist and knock. It's now or never, and you're a Winchester, not a Losechester. You got this. You totally got this.

The door creaks open, and your knees almost go out on you when you see Cas standing there in nothing but his Hanes with that, that ridiculous mess of sex hair and those wide, freakishly blue eyes that only poets can put words to with any amount of justice.

Oh, God, you don't got this.

"Sam snores."

He spies your duffle bag. "I see."

Cas lets you in with little more than a gesture, going about his business as if he'd never answered the door. You keep looking over at him, absent-mindedly working at the buttons on your shirt as he stuffs his nose in a book that seems more like a sleeping pill substitute than actual reading material. When he doesn't speak up after a solid few minutes, you take a step towards him, test the waters a bit. "You, uh…searching for something?"

"Nothing related to the case," he says without lifting his head. "Simply satiating my own curiosity."

You can think of at least five other curiosities you'd rather be satiating right now. "So…you're just going to sit here and read?"

"I'm not feeling fatigued yet. Why?" His eyes snap up at you, and your fingers curl around the back of an empty chair, knuckles whitening. "Is there something else you would suggest?"

Whatever sort of intentions you may have had, it don't matter now. Your brain's turned to oatmeal, jaw dangling open like a fucking blow-up doll, and the only thing worse than you standing there like a jackass is him sitting there, staring at you like you're a jackass. "No, it's, uh…" You slide a hand over your mouth. "I'm going to bed."

"All right. Good night."

You almost make it underneath the covers, but you stop yourself. Partly because you refuse to believe you're some chickenshit that can't cough it up without a spot of liquid courage, but also…what the fuck is Cas' deal, anyway? "You know, most people would be upset," you say. "If something… _happened…_ and all of a sudden they got told it didn't mean anything."

He tilts his head. "Are you upset?"

The laugh you bark out surprises even you. "No! Why would—what?"

"Because you seem awfully—"

"No, I just—"

"Then I don't understand. You requested your space, and I was happy to give it to you."

You gape at him. Something that's quickly becoming a bad habit. "Happy? Really? You're not mad about yesterday?"

"I don't see any reason to be. Clearly, you still had your issues to sort through, and I thought it best to not interfere until you decided you were ready."

"I'm not talking logic here, Cas. Fact, it's anything but. I'm talking about…" Your nails dig into the heel of your palm. You don't know where this is going; only that there's a giant _WRONG WAY_ sign and you fucking blew right past it. "So you're just…indifferent about the whole thing?"

He takes his sweet time setting his book back on the table, closing it with one of his long-ass sighs. Moments pass till he finally says, "Dean, if there's something you want, all you have to do is ask."

Whatever lid you had tamped down on the churning in your gut is gone now, the panic welling up inside as the taste of cotton hijacks your mouth. "Maybe I don't know what I want," is all you croak out. Are friends with benefits even like, a thing for dudes? Is this even about that anymore?

"I sincerely doubt that's true. Perhaps you're merely afraid to admit it."

"Yeah, well…" You catch yourself trembling, bottom lip doing that stupid little quiver thing. You kick yourself to pull it together. "If you're so smart, then you tell me."

"And what do you want me to tell you, exactly?" He pushes up from his chair, walking towards you till he's got you within point-blank range, locking you into his sights. The bulbs don't fizzle and pop, but you still feel the sparks. "That you are, as you say, 'full of crap'?"

"It's a good start."

His eyes settle on your mouth, and it's a damn miracle you can even swallow. "I'm not going to let you off that easily."

And just like that's that, he spins around and goes back to reading his book. It's a weird kind of relief, the panic dripping away as the anger licks it right up. At least it gives you a leg to stand on; gives you back the one ounce of wit you might've had barreling into all this. "So, what? You just don't care, then? Is that it?"

"I'm not indifferent, Dean. I'm trying to be respectful of your space."

"Space?" Your lips twist into a wry smile. Yeah, if that ain't a load of crock. "Since when did space ever matter to you, huh? Or do you only get all up in my face when it's convenient? When you need something?"

He rolls his eyes. "Casting stones over who uses whom is useless. You and I know that we both have more than enough ammunition to hurl at each other, but I'd like to believe that we've graduated beyond such an infantile exercise. Besides…" He wets his finger and flips a page, raising his brow. "I'm not the one who came here needing something."

You'll be the first to admit that you deserve the cold shoulder for leaving him hanging, but it feels like you're veering dangerously close to sub-zero temps. "Wow. Here I thought you might actually be the one winged dick worth choking down. What happened to you being a fucking human being? I don't get it. One minute, you're like this, this awkward, bumbling…sex machine"—yeah, you said it—"and the next, you're like…Spockstiel."

"Spock is half-human. And I fail to see how being human requires one to react as irrationally as you're obviously attempting to goad me into doing." Doesn't stop him from huffing at you. "It's not going to serve any purpose."

"Why the hell are you trying to be so calm about this, anyway? Because ever since we DeLorean'ed our asses back to the forties, something…something's been off about you, man. Did Bart send you back to angel boot camp? Return you to original factory settings? 'Cause where's the Cas that I knew, huh? The Cas that actually got passionate about shit, that wouldn't take no for an answer? The Cas that I…"

Suddenly, he looks up at you. You swear he almost seems… _hopeful._

"I—I'm just saying…" You do your damnedest to force down the lump in your throat when he turns away again. "It's okay for you get pissed, Cas! God knows I've more than earned it! And purpose? What fucking purpose? We're _human,_ Cas. It's in our goddamn nature to be irrational! That's all there is to it. So get pissed! Get irrational! Show emotion, show…Jesus, just _something!_ "

An eternity slips by before Cas bothers to speak up. "If only you knew how much I was holding back…how much I _have_ to hold back." His hand slowly balls into a fist. "I never should have…"

"Never should've what, Cas? You sure as hell weren't holding back yesterday."

He glances down at his lap. "I was weak," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."

"No." You barely spit that dumb two-letter word out between clenched teeth, blinking back the burn, the wetness in your eyes. You don't know if you're shaking your head, or just shaking, period. "No, you don't get to say sorry. Not this time. Not when I finally…"

Fuck it. If this is gonna be your last-ditch effort, you better make damn sure you're going all in.

'Cause he's never done anything less for you.

"You want to know what I want? I want Mom to not get out of bed November 2nd, 1983. I want to be able to remember every detail of her and not count on some crappy faded Polaroid. I want Dad to look his sons in the eyes more than he did the bottom of a bottle. I want him to scratch 'business' from 'family business.' Hell, I don't even want him to know that werewolves and vampires and fucking shapeshifters exist. Because Sam? I want him to have the life he's long overdue for. I wanna be there for his graduation, his wedding, that kickass job promotion, maybe knocking out a couple of Sammy juniors—the whole shebang. And I want you to be there for it, too, Cas. All of it. I want you to not zap off every time I turn my back. I don't want some half-assed apology; I just…fuck, I just want you to _stay,_ for chrissakes! I want…" The blood's pounding so hard in your ears, chest on the verge of collapsing, that you almost forget to breathe. "Dammit, Cas, I want _you._ "

It takes a moment for you to reel yourself back in before you dare peep an eye over at Cas.

Seems like he's forgotten to breathe, too.

"So yeah, maybe I did come here wanting something. Maybe I am afraid, okay? Maybe I'm fucking terrified because…I don't know what this means. I feel like I'm hangin' by a thread here, and I don't know if this is real or if this is…"

You'd like to say you stopped yourself short of blurting out something super lame like you've got a Cas-shaped hole in your heart, but judging by the droop in his shoulders, the tired creases around his eyes, maybe it don't matter what you say anymore. Maybe the damage has already been done. 'Cause after you trail off, it's like he's…it's like he's not even there, stuck somewhere in his own damn head. And that's when it really sinks in—down into the crypts you thought you'd sealed off, where there's nothing but the darkness and the stink of rotting flesh to keep you company—

Does he even want you back?

"It will be whatever you want it to be, Dean."

You would've been better off letting the silence eat you alive.

"That's…that's it? Seriously? That's all you…" Your heartrate kicks it up a notch, but it ain't because of the fear this time around. He better get on his knees and pray you don't have the strength to end this conversation with a broken jaw. "You know what? Fuck you, Cas. Fuck. _You._ I just puked my gay guts all over you, and that's all you have to say about it? Pull that fence out of your ass and take a fucking stance! Dude, you've got me fucked up in ways I can't even begin to wrap my head around. Maybe I don't deserve you; maybe I don't deserve much of anything, but I'm not—"

He grabs your face with both hands, kissing you before you can waste another breath, and that's it. Game over. You're fucking _melting._

"I took my stance a long time ago," he says when you both come up for air, tugging your shirt off and clutching your shoulder where he'd once marked his territory; branded you with the heat of his palm. "I pulled down the sky for you, Dean. I plucked the newborn stars and called them by your name; I breathed into you the light of a thousand constellations when I knitted you together from the dust of this earth." He noses along the length of your chin, sucking and biting at the skin just below the square of your jaw, using that goddamn tongue of his to soothe things over till he coaxes one moan after another outta you.

"But I wasn't the miracle worker," he says, the scratch of his stubble and warmth of his breath at your ear. "You were."

Before you can make any kinda noise to object, his mouth finds your lips again. It feels like this is the way he's always found you. Like you hope he always will. "When I rescued you from the pit, I restored you with a mere blueprint, but you…" He exhales hot and heavy into your mouth and fucking consumes you, teasing your bottom lip between his teeth. "You _changed_ me. Your soul reached out to where I had none; made me see what I was lacking. Entire strings of molecules within my chemical composition were rearranged, transformed because of the way you touched me. I simply would not exist in this form if it weren't for you."

His fingers dig into the small of your back, the pain sharp enough and his growl low enough to know that he means it. "Don't you _ever_ tell me you don't deserve anything."

You wait for him to let go, for the other shoe to drop, but it never happens. He just takes you in deeper, hands all knotted up in your hair and drawing you into his orbit like he's the sun and you're the moon like the hundreds of shitty poems you never read. God, you're really turning into a sap. That alone would be grounds for getting your man card revoked, but honestly? You lost the card for giving a fuck a long time ago.

"Blueprint or not, Cas," you say when the kissing stops and the haze clears, "what if…what if it don't matter that you patched me up? What if broke is just the way I am?"

He brushes a thumb over your cheek, and you lean into it. "If something can be broken, it can be put back together again."

"You so sure about that?"

"How do you think we keep returning to each other?"

You don't remember saying much to that. You just hum a little till it comes out more like a groan, letting your forehead fall against his and planting a grin at the corner of his mouth. So maybe you like Cas. Maybe it's a bigger deal than you thought. Maybe you don't know where this is going. Maybe you don't know the sorta label to put on it even if you did. There's a lot of maybes to this equation, but something tells you there'll be time to figure out all that shit later.

'Cause the one absolute?

Being with him feels too damn right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this got cut a bit shorter than I intended, but sexy times are guaranteed in the next chapter. ;) Hope it was a worthwhile addition nonetheless...I may or may not have gotten a little mushy over the end myself. :)


	16. Cue That One REO Speedwagon Song You Definitely Do Not Know All the Lyrics To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry this took me forever to update. I'm not used to writing this much smut and fluff. :P And it's also my first time writing praise kink, so I'm a wee bit nervous about that since I'm usually not big on dialogue during sex scenes. :/ But it's definitely one of my longest chapters yet, so hopefully that makes the wait a little more worth it? Maybe? No? Well, I hope you enjoy it all the same. :3

You're not used to the quiet being a good thing. For years, you've let the silence brick up the space between you two, sometimes to the point where you've built a friggin' fortress, and you were never really sure who you were protecting more—if you were locking him out or locking yourself in. But now that defenses are down, you don't find yourself wondering just how screwed you are. Instead, all that quiet feels like Baby's engine on a calm winter night, and you wanna soak it all up, let it warm you nice and easy from the inside out. After slamming shut door after door, skeleton after skeleton, you've finally busted the whole thing wide open. And someone's about to get their castle stormed.

Probably for the best that you're too busy working on a giant hickey for anything you say to be remotely intelligible.

But Cas ain't exactly the epitome of eloquence here, either, mumbling nothing but Greek in your ear while you skate your tongue over the skin above his collarbone, spit-shiny and candy-red. He arches into you, letting out a breathy moan as you put a bit of teeth into it, bringing out those beautiful purples and blues. You kiss him there once more to seal the deal, gently blowing over the love bite till he shudders beneath you, and fuck if you aren't getting the shivers yourself.

Now he knows what it's like to be marked by you.

"So," you drawl out as stubble brushes stubble, sliding your hands underneath the elastic at his waist and palming down the curves of an ass that'd make Michelangelo's _David_ hella jealous. "What happened to holding back?"

Whatever sorry attempt he might've made at a bluff earlier…well, think it's safe to say that it's officially been called when you sidle up crotch-to-crotch and feel him already half-cocked—not that you ain't packing some serious heat of your own. His throat bobs, eyes on your lips again as his hips follow your lead, shifting his weight into you just enough to fire up those red-hot coils in your belly. "I—I suppose…it would be rather hypocritical of me, considering I went off on my own harangue about not postponing the… _mmph!…_ inevitable." You get a squirmy little grunt outta him when you pinch his cheek the way no grandma ever would, and you're not sure which body part is blushing more. "Especially when the inevitable is unruly as Dean Winchester."

"Thought you said bein' stubborn is one of my better qualities."

"Only slightly less redeeming than your perky nipples."

It's like fire and lightning when he gives you that trademark smolder that burns right through you, feeling the reverb from the shockwaves over your skin as he runs his fingers up and— _fuck—_ he actually _tweaks_ them, the kinky bastard. Brings new meaning to "Twist and Shout" as you totally do _not_ make the most embarrassing, unmanly squeak in the entire history of foreplay ever. A flick of his nail is all it takes to pull the trigger, those sensitive nubs of yours achieving maximum perkiness as every last ounce of blood reroutes straight to your dick. Like hell he's gonna get away with that; you ram him up against the wall and grind into him, devouring his lips and groaning shamelessly because _God,_ you love the feel of him getting hard when you kiss. And when you bury your nose into the crook of his neck, you'll never get over how he actually smells like…like human things; like salt and sweat and faded bits of Irish goddamn springs.

He smells… _real._

"Besides," Cas says, like he honestly has the nerve to be doing other things with his mouth, "I won't have you thinking—"

"Not a lotta that happenin' right now."

"—that you don't deserve to be loved."

Instantly, you pull back, your heart stopping cold. "Cas, don't—"

"Don't"—he presses a thumb to your lips—"think. Just…be with me."

You can't manage much more than a nod as his finger lingers at the cleft in your chin, but when you see the way he's lookin' at you and get that funny feeling in your chest, you surge towards him, clutching his face and deepening the kiss to let him know that, fuck, Cas, you've never wanted anything more.

It's usually all silk and pearls making out with women, but there's something about the prickle of his well past five o'clock shadow on your chin while you suck at his soft, wet lips that makes for a hell of a sensation combo. He gives you the tongue slip as you grab fistfuls of his hair, returning the favor with a little action of your own until you're panting into each other's open mouth, barely parting long enough to yank his t-shirt up and over his head. Your hands paw at his back, tugging down on waistbands and biting back a moan as your dicks slide together in full-frontal contact.

But when you pause for breath, every single one of your nerves on edge, all at once, it's almost too much sensation to take in.

"We're completely fucking naked right now," you blurt out.

'Cause apparently your dumb ass can't think of the _not_ glaringly obvious thing to say.

You attempt to smooth it over with a chuckle, but it doesn't stop that familiar twinge of panic from creeping in. What if you screw this up? Do you even know what the fuck you're doing? Mr. I Had My Angel Blade sure as hell don't know any more than you do. And hey, you're all for adventure, but you don't know how this…having "relations" with a dude thing works. Not really. Not when it don't involve exchanging a Hamilton for your pride. Not when it's, y'know, _proper_ and requires more than a couple'a jerks till pop goes the weasel. Sex is s'posed to be one of the few things you're actually talented at, not an act you bumble through like Michael Cera at junior prom.

On top of that, you're about to jump into…whatever this is…with someone who—literally—sewed your ass back together; someone who knows where to find all your cracks, your Achilles heel; someone who's seen the darkest, shittiest parts of you, and he's…

He's ogling your junk.

"Your powers of observation are an inspiration to all," he deadpans, but there's a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth that opens up something in your chest, makes you breathe easy again. Before you can help yourself, your whole body's shaking, trying to hold in the laughter because you realize…dude, it's Cas. It's just _Cas,_ man. Just a weird…dorky little guy. The guy who you never have the heart to tell how much he stinks at jokes when he's got that same lopsided smile he's wearing now. The guy who wakes you up at three in the morning with flowers and bees and poop emojis, for chrissakes. And this…this is the guy you've known for _years._ The guy who's fought tooth and nail through every battle; the guy who flat out rebelled against heaven for you. The guy who's granted you chance after chance to make it right.

And this is the guy you wanna make it right with.

"You know," you take his cheek into your palm, giving it a playful tap, "you're a real smartass these days."

"Just look at the type of ruffian I consort with. You could say he's…" Cas rolls his hips into you, your gut doing flips when the head of his dick brushes up against your stomach, "…rubbed off on me."

"Oh, he's about to do a hell of a lot more than rub off on you."

Greasing your palm up with a wad of spit, you wrap it around his shaft, and…well, it's not anything you ain't felt before—a dick's a dick—but knowing it's Cas' dick, knowing it's _him_ pulsing in your hand and getting stiffer with each stroke…you'll just say you're reaching new heights of your own. You try to gauge his reaction, see what he likes and don't like, being extra careful when massaging his balls; you know from experience that all it takes is one wrong tug, and it's over. Must be getting warmer, though, if you've got his eyelids doing flutters, teasing that sweet spot at the underside of his head—right where you'll convince him soon enough that heaven isn't just a bunch of fluffy clouds in the sky. "This okay? You want more?"

"Good," is all he says, knees wobbling as he sighs. "S-so good."

Vocab's shrunk to a smaller number than he can count on all ten digits. Positive sign. "Easy there, tiger. We're just getting started. Wanna make sure you get your happy ending this time." You put your lips to his ear, raking your teeth over the lobe, and you're almost fucking salivating as you whisper, "Ever have your cock sucked, Cas?"

You swear his dick jumps at the idea. "Only by you."

Scratch that; not just a smartass. A _cheeky_ smartass.

You huff out a laugh as you move in for a little mouth-to-mouth rendezvous, traveling down the span of his neck and along his bruised-up collarbone, grinning at the sudden shudder of his chest when you smear a thumb through the pearly bit of fluid forming at his tip. Guess you better get this show on the road before it's curtain drop, so you make your way south, licking circles around his nipples till you got 'em riled up, and when you clamp down on those suckers hard enough to leave him gasping, yeah, you feel pretty damn vindicated, all right.

Slowly dropping to your knees, your mouth trails down that brick house stomach of his—Jesus, there's a six-pack you'll drink right up—sensing every breath he inhales, every quiver of muscle against your lips. You're gettin' more and more liberal with your kisses the closer you get to your feature presentation, sliding your palms up the back of his legs, ass—hell, whatever you can grasp at—as you give some love to the vee in his hips, the crease in his thigh, until you wind up face-deep in his crotch. Which, okay, not a place you'd ever thought you'd find yourself in again, but Christ, you can't stop that fucking scent of his from rushing straight to your head: musky with the faintest hint of that peach-smelling bar soap. Shit, you'd think you were some kinda snooty wine taster; does that make you a dick connoisseur?

Hey. Buddy. Focus. You're here to blow the dude, not write a fucking foodie review.

You graze the base of his cock, sending up a silent _Thank you, God_ 'cause Cas has the decency to keep himself groomed—shaved, actually, save for the patch of dark pubes he's trimmed down. When he took a crash course in manscaping, you dunno, but the thought of sucking him off just got _so_ much sexier. Since his crown jewels seemed to enjoy the hands-on approach, you tongue his balls and take them into your mouth real delicate-like, jerking your wrist a few times to make sure the rest of his bits don't feel neglected, neither. His hard-on's at full attention, dripping with precum on anticipation alone as you push back the foreskin till his pecker's peeking out at you in all its pink, naked glory. He's not as long as you, but damn if he don't got the beef, and you choke down about twenty brand-new swear words as you gnaw at your lip because holy fuck, you're this close to jacking yourself off right here and now.

"Dean…" There's a slight pressure of fingertips at the back of your head. "Are you sure you…you don't have to do— _ahh!_ "

You've got him seeing fireworks when you kiss his tip, swirling your tongue around the swollen head and—for the kicker—lightly puffing a stream of cool air over it until he groans like his brain might melt out of his ears. Yeah, right. Like you're really gonna abort mission now.

"I'm a lot of things, Cas, but even I'm not that cruel."

"You needn't—you needn't worry about me."

Poor guy's nearly wheezing. Maybe you should take it down a notch.

Nah.

"I ain't that cruel to me, either." You nudge your cheek up against the bend in his cock, mouthing around his girth as you stare him square in the eyes. "Wanna be good to you, Cas."

"You… _mmm._ " He swallows thick, closing his eyes as his head falls against the wall. "You are nothing but."

The lamplight shines a golden haze over his face, and you wonder if there's some kinda poetic irony in this, considering you're the one kneeling and doing the dirty deed. But those're the sort of feelings you've got under lock and key in the furthest recesses of the fucked-up junk pile you call a brain—a place you swore you'd never go again—and wasn't the point of this, y'know, _not_ thinking?

You barely acknowledge him with a grunt, but he pulls you up by the chin, thumbing at your hairline. "Dean…you _are_ good." He says your name with so much affection you could puke. "You need to believe that."

You haven't believed those words since you had the crust cut off your PB&J, but that don't stop the ache from rising up in your chest—or worse, the hope that maybe…fuck, that maybe you _could_ do him right. Kiss every inch of him; worship at his feet; prove how much you need him. How much you need to know that your entire shitty existence means at least…at least _something_ in this blip of a moment you have together.

But fair's only fair, and ain't nothin' ever come for free. You grab his hand, pushing it towards the back of your head for better grip. "Then let me earn it before you go sayin' things like that."

Applying a fresh coat of spit, you work him up in your palm till you've got him leaking all over you like a goddamn faucet. You'd be impressed if it didn't drive you all sorts of wild, seeing the horny, wet mess you've made of him, knowing how much power you're holding over him. Fuck, you've gotta get some of that for yourself, hypnotized by the way his pretty little cock dribbles onto yours as it stirs up a primal kinda hunger in your gut. And honestly, you've never been a fan of man juice, but compared to all the other taste tests you've suffered through, Cas is nectar-of-the-gods-type shit, that slightly sweet tang hitting you like one hell of an aphrodisiac when you dip back down and lap the rest of 'im up. There's no fighting it anymore; you give in to touching yourself, unable to hold back a whimper as you lube yourself up with his slick.

"Beautiful," Cas murmurs, digging his fingers into your hair. "Your hands, your lips…every part of you. Absolutely beautiful. I wish— _hah—_ I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. I— _fuck._ "

You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel it in the dick, but reducing a former angel of the Lord to cusswords? There's a compliment if you ever heard one. Not that you can really blame him. You've got your mouth suctioned around his head, dragging yourself off so slow that it's gotta be fucking agony for him to watch you like that. You take advantage of every second you've got, tracing your tongue over your lips and smacking them a little for show, making it crystal clear just how much you're savoring this…how much you're savoring _him._

" _Dean…_ " It sends his eyes rolling back into his head, the growl in his throat so deep, you're on a whole new frequency now, baby. "Want— _need_ your mouth all over me."

"I got you, Cas." You rub your palms up and down the stretch of his stomach, ruffling through his pubes and leaning in to kiss the inside of his thigh. "Just—hold on; wanna make this good."

Gripping the base of his dick, you lick up his rock-hard length in stripes, and his entire body sighs, lungs damn near tapped out of air. "Mmm, Dean… _Dean,_ " he pants. "Good, yes. So— _ahh—_ so good to me."

Oh, he ain't seen nothin' yet.

You run your tongue along the ridge of his head to find that holy grail of pleasure points, and when you give it a little flick, Jesus, you're lucky he's got a wall propping him up, or you woulda flatlined him right there. You've got him trembling as he rattles off a bunch of what you're pretty sure are the Enochian versions of four-letter words, and fuck, but he's hot as hell like this, at your complete mercy with his chest all flushed, cock throbbing and veins bulging like they could pop any second. It's all hands on deck now, pumping him faster, tighter, until you're ready to dive back in and suck him dry. You hum a little as you slide over the tip—boy, does Cas like that—oiling him up with more spit and fusing your lips to your fist as you swallow him down inch by inch.

"Oh, Dean…Dean, I— _fuck—_ yes… _yes,_ take me in. Take me all in. Everything I am is yours."

That's all the encouragement you need, and you fucking _inhale_ him, sinking right down to the hilt and jamming him up against the back of your throat. You maintain position long enough to let it register how deep he is, to really let him feel you— _all_ of you—and you'll just figure the glazed-over stupor is his way of showing appreciation. Gradually, you work yourself up to a decent pace, bobbing your head as you get 'im all good 'n' sloppy, adding just the teeniest bit of teeth in the right places for the extra thrill. You've got him fixed on your sights, keeping that gaze steady as you moan around him because fucking Christ, your imagination didn't even come close to the feeling of his fat, meaty dick in your mouth.

"I've waited…I've wanted you for so long, Dean. I wish I'd seen it sooner, the way you look at me like that. If only I'd—"

He gasps as you pull down gently on his balls, plastering his palms to the wall as he tries to hold himself back, but the stutter in his hips doesn't go unnoticed. Eventually, he don't move much at all, short on breath and face taut as fuck as he stares off into blank space. You slip off of him, laying a hand on his hip. "Hey, Cas, you still with me? Did I do something wrong?"

He shakes his head. "You did everything right. So _incredibly_ right. I just…I don't want to…but the others…"

Aw, hell, is _that_ what this is about? You don't got some fucking _FRAGILE: THIS SIDE UP_ warning label slapped on you. And a man curbing his enthusiasm enough to cause him physical pain is something you just can't have on your conscience.

"Cas…Cas, it's okay. This isn't—I know it's not like that." You glance up at him, squeezing his hand. "You wanna fuck my mouth?" 'Cause honest to God, you'd love nothing more.

"Yes…yes, if you—you're such a good boy, Dean. Want to fuck that perfect mouth of yours. Want you to be a good boy for me." Something snap freezes inside of you when he reaches down to cup your cheek. "Because you know…you know that's what you are, right? Not believing in something doesn't make it untrue." The back of your jaw locks up, growing sore at the hinges. "You are a _good_ man. It's not something you earn. You just are. You always have been."

You hope he don't expect you to say nothin' 'cause it's almost too much just to gulp it all down, let it go in one ear and out the other because pushing past it is the only way you'll ever be able to come up for air. You don't look at him when you shove his hand down onto your head and stuff your face full of cock. You don't think about the good and bad, 'bout the black and white; you block out everything 'cept for what matters right this moment. There's no better cure than pure adrenaline to get you back on that one-track mind, greasing up the wheels and hollowing your cheeks to keep him nice and snug. After a few well-executed tricks with your tongue, he finally, _finally_ takes that bull by the horns like you've been fantasizing about, tangling his fingers in your hair and thrusting into you. He falls into rhythm as you fall back onto your haunches, closing your eyes and tugging at your own dick till it's raging hard again thanks to all the noises that make you wonder just how much Cas really has learned from the pizza man—God, he's a moaner. And when those breaths get sharper, quicker, louder, you fumble for that prime piece of real estate behind his ball sack, kneading a knuckle right into the coup de grâce.

"Dean—" he chokes, yanking you back, "—I'm going to…I can't—"

You lock your fingers with his and force him down your throat, letting him know he's got nothing to worry about—letting him know you _want_ this—and that's it; he's done. In an instant, his balls hike up, cock twitching and spilling into your mouth as he cries out your name like it might be the only thing he'll ever be capable of saying again. You try to swallow as much of him as you can like a champ, but Christ, the man's like the goddamn Energizer Bunny; he just keeps on coming and coming, and you're the one who ends up sputtering out. Okay, so you're a little out of practice, but if his blissed-out expression is your scorecard, that's gotta be at least a nine outta ten.

"That was… _amazing,_ Dean," he says as you wipe the cum off your chin, and fuck, that _was_ hot, wasn't it? You're tingling all over as your heart's still pounding in your ears, the pulsing in your dick only gettin' stronger. Shit, you literally almost got off on getting a guy off, but Cas decides to take things into his own hands, pulling you close and kissing you like he doesn't give a crap that your mouth's still covered in his spunk. "You're— _mmpf—_ Dean, you're amazing." And even though he's about as tasty as a kale protein shake, Cas licking himself off your lips is officially your new favorite kink. Jesus, you're so damn turned on right now; it's a no-holds-barred kinda groan when you feel him reach for your dick, a mix of ecstasy and relief flooding through you as he lubes you up with your own hot mess.

"You liked that, didn't you?" He mouths at your neck, that delicious fucking rasp of his sending chills down your spine. "I saw you touching yourself."

"God, yes. Couldn't get enough of you, Cas."

"Would you like me to perform fellatio on you as well?"

So the dude doesn't get any points for dirty talk, but you'll work on that later. Right now, you'll commit murder if he lets go for even a second. "No, no, this is…" You buck your hips a couple times into his hand. "Just— _hah—_ keep going. Not gonna last long, anyway."

Cas prods you towards the bed, and you stagger across the room, shoving him onto his back so you can get in there and straddle him, and oh, God, just how freaking sexy would he look with your cum all over his chest? You lean back as he strokes your shaft, doing a twisty thing with his fist that's got you on edge, every inch of you aching for more until he seizes up, grabbing your hips with both hands.

"Dean…Dean, wait, that's"—he winces—"it's still tender."

"Oh…" You didn't even realize you were grinding into his dick. "Shit, sorry. Forgot about that."

"While I do like the view from down here"—is it just your imagination, or are his cheeks gettin' unusually rosy?—"I think it'll be more comfortable for the both of us if you lie down next to me instead."

"Yeah, okay," you say. "You, uh…you mean like…this? Or…" You flounder a bit as you attempt to shift around, trying to figure out where to put your hands, how you fit together, but apparently you two have all the coordination of a Leslie Nielsen flick and end up knocking heads.

"Fuck, Christ—"

"Apologies. I only meant to kiss you, not give you a concussion."

He actually wouldn't be the first. "It's fine, Cas. You can still kiss me."

"Good. I like kissing you."

You chuckle softly, the heat of your breath on each other's mouth. "Well, I like you kissin' me."

He nudges you onto your back, never breaking contact with your lips as he stretches your foreskin back and gives you some five-fingered stimulation, pushing all the right buttons. Guy's a hell of a quick learner, and with your senses hitting near-critical levels, you dunno how much longer you're gonna be able to keep it together.

"Yeah, that's—" you gasp. "Fuck, don't stop, Cas."

"You were such a good boy, Dean. Sucking me off with those gorgeous, pink lips." You moan as he rubs your slick down the slit, sparks building up behind your eyes and in your gut. "But do you know which part of you I'm attracted to the most?"

"You already got me in bed, Cas," you whine, humping his fist. "You don't need to schmooze me."

"Your soul," he says, his voice like the low rumble of an oncoming storm in your ear. "Have you ever seen the Aurora Borealis, Dean? It's the only earthly phenomenon that comes close to painting an adequate picture, and even so, it pales in comparison. The human eye can detect up to ten million different colors, but to see your soul as it truly is, you'd have to multiply it tenfold."

Great, so you're Joe's technicolor dreamcoat.

"I wish you could see"—he kisses your temple, the sweat at your hairline—"how pure you are."

A lump springs up in your throat. "Stop it, Cas. Don't…don't say that crap."

"Not until you understand. Not until you know what you're truly worth."

He bites at your neck, and you can feel yourself clenching up, writhing beneath him as he pumps your dick so slowly—seriously, it's starting to piss you off—until…what the fuck? Is he gripping you like some goddamn cock ring? You're right _there,_ man. Is he _trying_ to kill you?

"Dean. Dean, look at me." He noses the square of your jaw as you whimper into your pillow. "You are _good._ You _are_ good."

"Cas…Cas, _please._ " Fuck, you're so _close;_ why won't he stop being your fucking life coach and finish the job?

"Say it, Dean."

"Cas—"

"Look at me. _Say_ it."

You're fighting against it, every instinct batting against your chest like some bratty kid who don't like to be told what to do. But when your eyes meet his, you feel him opening that final door to that crummy, beat-up space you and everyone around you's long since abandoned, nothing but cobwebs and rotting floorboards to show for it, and suddenly, every creak and groan wells up within you: "I'm…'m _good._ "

'Cause he wants to call you home.

With a few flicks of his wrist, you finally explode, and _goddamnjesusfuck_ is it everything you've been waiting for. The orgasm shoots straight to your head and pings back to every nerve in your body, your vision whiting out and hips arching off of the bed as cum spurts all the way up your chest. Cas strokes you through the entire ride until you're putty in his arms, and fuck, if you died right here, you'd die a happy, happy man.

But you're still alive—God, you're _so_ alive—when Cas kisses you in the afterglow, a little slower, a little softer, nipping at your lips and sucking gently on your tongue. "I know you don't really believe me," he says, bumping his nose up against yours. "But I hope you will. Someday."

Hell, you might believe just about anything right now.

The bed dips as he scoots off, mumbling something about cleaning up, but you pull him back. "You gonna, uh…you're gonna be here in the morning, right?"

He leans over and pecks your cheek. "Anything you wish."

After the lights go out, sheets rustling as loose limbs settle into each other, you figure there's room for one more blatantly obvious admission: "So. Guess this isn't just a one-time thing after all."

You're pretty sure there's a smile in his words. "So it would appear."

You never would've thought Cas the snuggly type, but he shimmies back into you, stealing one of your arms and draping it over himself while the other gets wedged underneath. Even when it starts to fall asleep, you decide it's not worth the trouble to wriggle out of it.

You're done fighting.

*****

It's a slow transition to the waking world, the kind where you're barely conscious and feel like you're wrapped up in a big fuzzy cocoon. It's dark enough that you try holding onto that feeling for a few moments longer, but morning eventually bursts in like a damn musical number, and you find yourself torn between burrowing deeper into the warmth of your bedsheets or fishing for the Colt and putting an end to the squawking outside your window.

Comfort wins (this time). Yawning, you stretch your limbs and adjust your pillow, but there's a split second of terror when your heel knocks up against a hairy shin and it dawns on you that no, it is definitely _not_ normal for people to grow a third leg overnight.

You roll over towards its owner, and—oh. Right. Your "sleepover" with Cas. So you, uh…you really went through with it. You really…yeah, yep. Still in the raw. Right there under the covers. Both of you.

Okay, so…this is it. This is…you and Cas now.

Huh.

The ceiling fan whirs overhead, filling the room with white noise. Not enough to drown out the sounds Cas is makin'—guess he's a heavier sleeper than you figured him for—but it's all right. 'Cept for the dumb birds, it's kinda nice, actually, just lying here. Been a long time since you've felt like you could do this—where you don't have to ditch your date before first light; don't have to get a cup of coffee in you and throw yourself right back into the job 'cause it's better than dealing with whatever thoughts kept you company last night. And face it: you've made a lot of bad judgment calls in bed. Come to think of it, you've probably made most of your crappy life choices in bed. Figuratively and literally.

But as you crane your neck towards Cas, living and breathing as peaceful as can be, you know that this? Ain't one of them.

You wouldn't mind turning this into a whole day sort of thing, but time on the clock says you better get moving if you want a decent start. You shift closer, sneaking in a hand all stealth-like as you give one of his nipples an up-and-at-'em pinch.

Okay, so you might actually be twelve.

He startles awake, snuffling at the air and huffing through his nose before opening his peeper at you. His hair's sticking every which way, eyebrows scrunched together like someone's pissed in the joe he hasn't even had yet, and it's…well, you know. Adora…whatever.

"Mornin', sunshine."

He smothers a groan in his pillow. "Hello, Dean."

"You're still here." The words feel gritty in the back of your throat, still thick with sleep. You don't know why you said 'em.

"So is the sun," he says like you're a moron for even thinking it. "Why did my father have to create a giant burning ball of nuclear fusion?" Is that a whine? You're pretty sure that qualifies as a whine. "'Let there be light.' Worst decision _ever._ "

You snort as he curls up into you, his bedhead tickling you when you kiss his crown. You know the feeling, buddy.

The two of you settle into the quiet, Cas rubbing his nose up against your tattoo as he slips an arm around you. "Were you worried that I wouldn't be here?"

"Didn't know if it was just another dream."

He glances up at you, eyes hooded as the lazy crook of his grin mirrors your own. "You dream of these things often?"

"Define 'often.'"

"Frequently."

"No, I know what—"

"I know; you were being facetious."

"No, I was joking."

"That's exactly what facetious means."

The back of your hand flops over your eyes. "Awesome. First day, and we're already having a communication breakdown. Isn't that s'posed to be like, the golden rule for couples?"

Cas props up on his elbow. "That depends. Are we a couple?"

Your eyes fly open. Wait, did you just…?

"I mean…that's not…I mean, 'couple' as in…two people…doing things…okay, maybe _together_ or whatever, but it's not like…we don't hafta…hafta put a friggin' label on it or anyth—"

"Dean," he says, closing in on you. "Stop talking."

Hard to argue with the guy when he's trying to french you.

Moment's short-lived, though; Cas wrinkles his nose at you as he breaks away. "You smell terrible."

He deserves a shove for that. "Hey, I'm not the only one, dragon breath. 'Fraid it's just something you'll have to get used to about being human. You know…" You feel him grunt into your shoulder. "We could move this to the bathroom. Test the water pressure. Might need a shower buddy in case things get a little slippery."

"I suspect 'slippery' is your intent."

"Just looking out for your best interests, Cas. And if those interests happen to line up with mine, well…" you shrug, "…that's a win-win in my book."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that showering together is more efficient, too."

He slides out of bed, the sheets falling to the wayside and leaving fuck all to the imagination. Now if _that_ was painted all over the Sistine Chapel, you might have a better appreciation for art.

"You coming?"

Your head jerks up to see him standing in the doorway to the john. "What? Right. Course. Efficient."

You should really start your days off without pants more often.

*****

"That," Cas says as you fetch a clean shirt, "was the _opposite_ of efficient."

"I didn't hear you complaining." You sneak up from behind, roping him into your arms and…well, you don't _nuzzle_ him, exactly. It's more like, y'know. Whatever the manly equivalent of nuzzling is.

"I was hoping today would be more productive."

"Then you and I got different definitions of 'productive.'"

You try going for the neck, give him a little replay from this morning, but Cas gets squirrely and pushes you away. "You do remember we have a mission, right?"

"Thought we completed that already." He's shooting you nothing but blinks, so you waggle your brow and make moony eyes at 'im. "Operation: Get Into Cas' Pants. Official reports say it was a _rousing_ success."

His head rolls back right along with his eyes. Doesn't even get you a pity chuckle. "I meant Bartholomew, Dean."

Buzzkill.

You don't understand why he's acting so cold all of a sudden; figured he of all people'd appreciate the joke. Dude's been fickle as fuck lately. Then again, not like it's the first time he's ever come at you from outta left field. And, well…you haven't exactly been playing it straight yourself.

Heh. _Playing it straight._ Gonna have to remember that one.

"Yeah, yeah." You finish buttoning up your shirt, swiping the nearest tie. "Save the world and all that crap."

"In order to do that," he says, fussing with the back of your collar—thanks, Mom—"we have to know what we're saving the world from."

Oh, gee, is that all? "I called over to Sam's room; he just got done with his decathlon, so he's gonna wipe down and give Sarah a ring." You pat your stomach after it gurgles at you. Someone's not happy. "Meantime, can we least do something 'bout breakfast?"

Cas crosses his arms, doing his weird little grunt-laugh.

"What?"

"'A rousing success.' How _hard_ that must have been for you to resist."

Now you're the one with the eye roll, though you're doing a poor job of fighting back a grin. "Couple," right. More like a couple'a idiots is what you are.

But maybe that's all it really comes down to: finding someone who gets your type of "idiot."

Cas stocked up on supplies while that Jack fella was chatting you up yesterday evening, so you throw on the gas and turn up the tunes, flipping your tie over your shoulder as you work the stove 'cause that's the kinda mistake you only make once. Glenn Miller serenades you with an oldie but goodie, saxophone tweetin' and horns wailing as you dance circles around Cas, sneaking an arm behind him for the eggs to whip up some pancake batter while he peels apart the bacon. He's looking at you like you're a total kook—coffee must still be percolating—but that just gives you all the more reason to ham it up, tossing him a wink and humming little ditties in his ear. It's a real nice change of pace, you bein' all domestic-y like you could actually be normal people for once. Pretty awesome how seamlessly it all fits into your whole routine…how _he_ fits. Someone who understands the life without ever missing a beat.

God, you two should've done this ages ago.

Especially since you still got a kitchen counter back at the bunker that needs christening.

As you fry the pancakes to a golden brown, the radio starts acting up, the signal dissolving into nothing but fuzz. "…ease lis…to me…I…bear see…ike thi…have to…"

You fiddle with the dial, hitting the sides a couple of times. "The hell? What happened to pride in workmanship?"

"What? Did you hear something?" You turn around, and Cas is right there on your heels. Dunno why he's so jumpy about it.

"Relax, Cas; it's probably only a bit of crossover static."

"…ove y…bu…have to wa…thirst of a king can be quenched for just a nickel…with Cola King!"

After commercial break, the DJ puts on a number from the Andrews Sisters, singing clear as a bell. "See? Needed a little manhandling, is all. Always works for me."

You give his ass a friendly smack before going back to the food prep, but that frown of his is stuck on there pretty good. You grab the pot of joe and pour him a cup. "Dude, you need to perk up. Drink your coffee."

As you pack up the grub to take over to Sam, Cas rests a hand at your back and says, "I didn't mean to put you in an awkward position earlier."

"You've put me in quite a few positions since last night; you're gonna have to be more specific."

He ain't smirking like you, but you can see that twinkle in his eye. "I was referring to my question earlier. About whether or not we're a couple."

You stiffen up. "Cas—"

"I wanted to tell you that I am comfortable calling it whatever you wish. Although labels can be useful for defining things, in this situation, I don't believe the label will change the meaning."

Well, that's…good to know, you guess. "Right…actually, about that…"

"Dean, if you're having reservations again—"

"No, no, no, it's not that. Trust me, I, uh…" You lick your lips, wrangling him in by the belt loop and palming your hands down his arms. "I wanna keep this thing going. I just…"

"It's Sam, isn't it?"

"Yeah." You let go of him, lowering your eyes. "He doesn't…there's things he don't know about me, and—"

"You would rather that he not know."

"It's just…I've carried this certain, y'know"—you roll your shoulders—"image of myself…"

"I really don't see the point of such a charade," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. "While I certainly understand if you think it's no business of the general public's, I can assure you that your sexual orientation is of no consequence to your brother."

Sexual orientation. He makes it sound so fucking… _clinical._ "Cas, no offense, but Sam? Knows me better than anyone else on this entire friggin' planet. I've been taking care of that kid ever since his first poop. And even he never knew half the shit that…" You shake your head, throwing your arms out to the side. "What am I supposed to do, huh? Bust in with a toe-tapping chorus of 'I'm here, and I'm queer'?"

"You're putting too little faith in him, Dean. You know it's not going to matter to him."

Somewhere in the back of your mind, yeah, maybe you do know that. Hell, he seemed to know before you did. But admitting it out loud that you're…that's like sealing the deal.

"Hey, when I think he's ready to hear it, I'll tell him." Picking your hat off the coat hook, you smooth your hair back and sigh. "Just…give me time to work it out, okay?"

"Of course."

You grab Cas' fedora for him, too, plopping it on his head as you reel him in with a kiss.

"What was that for?" he asks, breathless and bright-eyed.

"For being awesome."

"You're going to have to be more specific." A smile creeps onto his lips as you make your way towards the door. "I've been 'awesome' quite a few times since…well, the beginning of time."

So much for humanity being a humbling experience.

*****

Sam's glued to the newspaper when you crash his room with brunch in tow, listening to him get his nerd on about "This Day in History." You're more interested in the headliner, though:

_POLICE BAFFLED BY NO-EYED HOMICIDES_

You poke him with the blunt end of your fork. "Hey. Walter Cronkite. That article mention any new leads?"

"No," he says, "but I think we can consider that a plus. Would hate for the LAPD to catch up with us, especially that one detective that's got you on his rap sheet. What was his name…Cole Phelps? Looks like he's taking lead on this case."

"Guy's a rookie. Bet he never even had to shoot anybody. I mean, if he actually bought Cas' acting…"

You go for a couple flapjacks, but you almost lose your fingers when Cas stabs his fork in the middle of the whole stack. "I got you out of that cell; I can throw you back in."

You're really more of a bacon and eggs man, anyway.

"Yeah, well, let's hope you're right," Sam says. "Though if that detention center in Arkansas is anything to go by, prison is probably your dream vacation."

"Orange is a flattering color on me."

He snorts, eyes traveling from you to Cas and back again. "I take it you slept pretty well last night."

Flashing a smirk, you reach for your mug—"Oh, I didn't"—and nearly choke on your coffee. "What?"

"Last night. You said you wanted to bunk with Cas instead because he's 'quieter than something really quiet.'"

Quiet's a subjective term. "Oh. That. I…well, you know…the accommodations were very…" you cough into your fist, "…accommodating. We got any salt or pepper here?"

"I must have forgotten," Cas says, scooting out of his chair. "I'll retrieve them."

While he's off getting the condoms—condomen—seasoning, you get back to business. "So you get a hold of Sarah?"

Sam nods. "She said she could meet us over at UCLA around noon."

"Mingle with college girls? I'm down with that."

He makes a face at you, but he doesn't give you the usual dirty old man flak. In fact, he don't say much of anything, staring down at his plate.

"Sammy?"

"I'm, uh…I don't know. Think I'm having second thoughts about this, maybe."

"What, you think we can't trust her?"

"No, it's not that; it's just…if we get her involved…" He shrugs, pushing around a clump of scrambled eggs. "Whatever happens to her is on us."

"Where's this coming from?"

"Dean, Sarah's— _our_ Sarah—is dead because of us. And Jess, and…" Biting at his lip, he gives up on his protein intake and tosses his fork to the side. "Pretty much everyone we've ever cared about is dead because of us. Hell, even you and I…Cas…have bit the bullet more than a few times."

"So we'll protect her, all right?"

"You know we can't make that kind of guarantee. Not for certain."

"She's a Man—Woman—of Letters. A girl like that knows how to take care of herself. 'Specially knowing her great niece." You deliver it like a joke, but he ain't laughing. "Besides, what about Amelia? Nothing happened to her."

Sam slides his plate over and leans forward, twiddling his thumbs before looking you in the eye. "Dean…do you know why I came back that night? I mean, yeah, the main reason was 'cause…you're my brother, and I wasn't about to go off with her if it meant losing my relationship with you, but…" He presses his lips together. "Part of me wondered if…if I couldn't give her what she really wanted. What she deserved. No matter how much we might want to, we can't run away from who we are, Dean. We're hunters; it's in our blood. And I know with Lisa, you tried, and…you couldn't—"

"Sam, I swear to God, you bring her into this—"

"Listen, I don't…I'm not trying to start something here. My point is, I didn't see it working out for us. So I…let her go." Crud, he's even got the puppy dog eyes out now. "It was the right thing to do, Dean. Letting her go."

"Okay, Dr. Phil, but what does any of that have to do with our current situation?"

"We're already taking a huge risk just by existing in 1947, and I get it; I get that our endgame is saving people." Does he? "I just…don't want to cause any collateral damage because we're too busy doing what we think is the right thing. That's all."

"Well, hey, if you got any better ideas, I'm all ears, but at this point, Sarah seems like our only in. And okay, so maybe we can't help everyone, but you know well as I do that soon as trouble comes knockin', we come runnin'. No one's getting bumped off without a fight."

He don't appear to be terribly convinced. "But don't you ever get that feeling? That something doesn't seem… _right_ about being here?"

Sure, you get lots of feelings. You just tend to ignore them. "What do you want us to do? Go back and find everything running on Bartnet?"

"Of course not."

"Then until you got a concrete reason we should be jetting back to 2014, we're seeing this through." Jesus, first Cas and now your brother. What are they; tag teaming you?

Speak of the devil—Cas returns with the salt and pepper shakers, planting himself next to you. "Did I miss anything important?"

"Nah. Sammy's just worried about his little ol' girlfriend getting involved with the likes of us."

Your brother huffs and goes back to picking at his eggs.

"Knowing you," Cas says, "I can't blame him."

Underneath the table, his hand slips into yours, and if anyone says anything else that morning, you don't hear a word.


End file.
